


The Overboss at Nuka-World

by JackRW



Category: Fallout 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9162259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackRW/pseuds/JackRW
Summary: The deeds and exploits of the Sole Survivor at Nuka-World, if she were violently insane. A work in progress.





	1. Chapter 1

I shot them. I shot them until they died, and then I shot them again, again, and again. I shot them until I ran out of bullets, then I fought them with tooth and nail, hand and foot. I fought them until they died. I fought them across the wasteland, across what was once the city of Boston, across the Commonwealth. I fought them over the edge of humanity, and fell with them into the bloody darkness beyond reason.

I fought them until I went insane. This is what happened next.  
\-------------

The man sat shivering and whimpering on the ground, leaning against a garbage can overflowing with decayed refuse carried out of Nuka-World two centuries ago. I fleetingly considered, not for the first or last time, the irony of trash being the most enduring artifact of our civilization. But as the thought entered my mind, so it left, pushed out by suspicion and primitive canny.

He was clutching at his side, pawing at it really, and I caught glimpses of wet blood on his palm. His face was fleshy, but pulled taut in a pallid grimace. His stringy, yellow hair clung to his scalp in damp clumps, undisturbed by the groans and curses that shook the rest of his limp body. By all appearances a man headed quickly to death's door. Of course, the same look could be replicated by some watered-down red paint and a bad case of jet withdrawal.

I looked around the dark terminal, hunting for some hint of deception. Nothing. Nothing but bones. Taking a few steps towards what must have been the ticket counter, I thumbed open the clasp on my holster, took the .44 in my hand. The hefty gun used to be reassuring, used to make me feel like I could take whatever the wastes could throw at me. I fingered the scar that ran along my jaw, chin to ear. Now it was the weakest weapon I dared carry.

"Hey, lady, I could use some help," were the man's first intelligible words since I entered. I turned on him, saw his eyes pointed at me warily. I met them, doing my best to project none of the weary malice that seethed beneath my skin. Whatever this man wanted, whatever he needed, I didn't want to give it to him. I didn't want to spare a stimpak, or some Med-X, or whatever the fuck he was going to ask me for. I wanted to put a bullet in him, and then see if there were any caps in one of the cash registers behind the ticket counter.

"Lady?" He grunted, the question more implied than enunciated. I approached him, my gun held loosely at my side, ready. Ready for what? Was I going to murder this guy because he was pathetic? _Yes_ , I thought. I wanted to. My trigger finger twitched. His pale lips quivered, caught between pain and fear. Fear of me. _Good_ , something in me whispered. _He should fear me_.

"Who shot you?" I asked. I sounded numb. Or dead. Fuck, maybe I was. The man shook his head, and shuddered a barking laugh.

"Raiders. Goddamn raiders. Thought there were traders… Goddamn raiders," he said. I didn't respond, but dropped to a crouch, my gun slanting casually across my knee. I watched his eyes go from watching me, to watching my gun. The pain must not have been that bad, because I couldn't see it anymore. I must have been some ugly witch, because he was getting scared. Scared, of me. 200 years ago, that might've made me laugh. I didn't laugh much anymore.

He coughed, no blood, and continued. "Up at Nuka-World, there used to be traders. Me and my family, we've got a farm not far from here. We'd do a little trading; good caps in it, you know? But this time, there weren't any traders."

Again, rough coughing. The sound echoed through the terminal, down the dark tunnels that led to Nuka-World.

"They got us, coming off the monorail," he said, not very convincingly. I could already fill in the rest of his story: raiders kidnapped his family, he tried to escape, got shot, made it back here alone, he could pay me if I rescued them. He didn't have much, but I was welcome to whatever he had. I'd heard it many times before. And a couple of times they'd been telling the truth.

"They took us, held us in these cages… like animals. I managed to escape, but when I was trying to get my family free-"

"Shut up," I interrupted, raising the .44 to his head. He shut up. He wasn't so limp anymore. Now he was tense, pain overridden by fear. It was a setup. I knew it, knew it in my bones. _It was a setup_.

I pried open his mouth with the tip of my gun, and forced it into his mouth, down his throat until he gagged on it. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled back the hammer. When it clicked, the fucker might have pissed himself. He was crying now, not the fake sobs from before, but a steady stream that made his face glisten in the faint light. _I'll make him cry_ , I thought.

"This is a setup. Try to get me on the monorail, try to get me to Nuka-World. That train probably lets off it a building with no exits, some kind of death trap. Lure people there with stories about traders, traders with money. Unless they look like real juicy marks, then they get the sob story, right? Those Gunners I had to kill to get in here, were they with you? Blink once for yes, twice no."

Twice.

"Are any of your friends around here?"

Twice.

"Do you have any idea what I'll do to you if you're lying to me?"

Once. _Liar_.

"Are they at the other end of the monorail?"

Once.

"Can I sneak past them? Run the monorail empty, then hitch a ride on the second through?"

Twice.

"So you've got some system rigged up. Alright." I pulled the gun out of his mouth, and wiped the thick saliva on his shoulder before pressing the gun against his forehead. He writhed under it, gibbering weak protests of innocence.

"Give me a number. How many are you?" I demanded. My hand didn't waver, the gun was steady. The trigger was so sensitive, all it would take was a little pull…

"At least two hundred, maybe more," he sobbed. He took deep, shuddering breaths, all remnants of his earlier gambit crushed by animal terror.

What he said startled me. It was probably false, although the capacity for deception seemed well beyond his present faculties. But if it were true? A single raider gang, numbering a few hundred strong? They'd be the biggest player in the Commonwealth. Impossible; they'd have conquered half of Boston already, and be marching on the other half unimpeded.

By my best estimate, there were somewhere around six thousand people between Wilmington and Roslindale, or what had been Wilmington and Roslindale. The biggest settlement was Diamond City, and there couldn't be more than eight hundred people living there. I'd never heard of a raider gang with more than fifty guys.

But that was a problem for later. I had to deal with the man beneath my gun.

I shot him and left his body where it lay.  
\-----------  
-Fair Warning: I didn't rate it explicit for nothing. Proceed with that it mind.-


	2. Chapter 2

A man's voice came over the intercom.

"You'd kill an innocent man in cold blood? I have an offer for you that you might be interested in. Board the monorail, and come to Nuka-World. We'll talk."

He spoke to an empty room.

\-----------------------------

The last Gunner crawled away from me, leaving a trail of blood as he went. He was muttering desperate pleas for mercy, begging me to spare him. The usual.

He had a knife at his belt. I leaned over him, plucked it from its sheath, and planted it at the base of his skull. Bullets were more valuable than he was. Poor boy twitched before he shit himself and died.

I stood on a section of overpass, standing sentinel at the base of the mountains that surrounded the Nuka-World theme park. From there, I could look over the whole area, take in the whole park in a single glance. It was night, and the park lay shrouded in a darkness penetrated by a few dim lights at its base.

Raiders.

I couldn't tell in the darkness how many there were. I didn't care. The dead man had said hundreds. I'd killed hundreds of raiders. I fingered the grip of my revolver lightly, letting the coarse material send a shivering sensation through my skin that made my breath catch in my throat. I'd killed _thousands_.

Maybe these would be different, maybe they were a tougher breed than the whacked-out pussies in the Commonwealth. There was a thought to light a fire in the cold. Maybe, after all this time, I'd meet my match. Someone tougher than me, someone meaner. A real son of a bitch to throw me to the dirt and kick me while I was down. Someone that would kill me; someone that _could_ kill me.

But then again, the lights only covered part of the park. Nearly all of Nuka-World was still dark, as empty as the day after the bombs fell. If they couldn't even take their own backyard, they wouldn't be able to take me. I wasn't sure if the thought relieved me, or disappointed me.

Fuck. Maybe a little of both.

Laughter broke the dense silence of isolation. It sounded like me, but I don't remember laughing.

I was going to go down there and try to murder all of them. And maybe, if I was lucky, I'd die.

I didn't.


	3. Chapter 3

"So some walk-the-wasteland fuck doesn't take the bait, and kills Keith? Who the fuck cares?" Gage demanded to the angrily pacing figure. Overboss Colter wore a dark expression, deepened by the long shadows of his penthouse high above Nuka-World, nestled at the peak of the artificial Fizztop Mountain.

Since Keith, the trader they'd forced into luring people onto the Nuka-Express monorail, had been gunned down by an unknown wanderer, who had subsequently disappeared, Colter had grown increasingly agitated. Gage didn't care, people died all the damned time. Might have been a Super-Mutant or a Gunner, for all they knew. But Colter was convinced it was the work of some shadowy agency, a threat to his control of Nuka-World and its resident raider gangs. Colter was fucking paranoid, as far as Gage was concerned.

"No. Why'd they do it? Why'd they do it, and then leave? And activating the monorail without being on it? Why would somebody do that?" the Overboss responded, the suspicion in his voice thick and husky. Suspicion? More like fear. Colter was weak. Gage almost wished that nobody wanderer had boarded the monorail; maybe they'd have made it through the Gauntlet. Maybe they'd have been the one to gun down Colter once and for all. He suppressed a sigh; no use wishing. One day, not today. That had been his mantra for a long time.

"Because they figured out it was a setup? Not like Keith was some fucking great-ass actor. He was an idiot," Gage said wearily.

"If you're so fucking smart, Gage, then why'd they run the monorail? Huh?"

"Who cares? Listen, boss, you work yourself up over this, and you're going to do something stupid," Gage said, rising from the chair he usually took when Colter felt like ranting. The bastard could pace and mutter for hours when the mood took him, and he expected Gage to sit through the whole damned thing.

Colter stopped pacing, and glared viciously at his second-in-command. "What's that supposed to mean, Gage? What the FUCK is that supposed to mean?"

He took a threatening step forward. Gage took a hesitant step back.

And was spared a confrontation by the sudden whirl of the motors that ran the lift. The wooden box fell rapidly towards the ground, a jury-rigged contraption barely worthy of the name elevator, clinging to the shell of Fizztop Mountain.

A familiar squeal of alarms sounded across Nuka-Town USA, the signal that another victim had wandered into the Gauntlet. All the fear and suspicion vanished from Colter's face, replaced by a maniacal glee at the mere expectation of bloody spectacle. Gage hated that expression. Colter was a child, constantly distracted from his tasks by the barest hint of some new amusement, the faintest glimmer of some shiny object. That expression was a symbol of Colter's failure, of his descent from ambitious conqueror to indolent tyrant.

Gage felt a tightness in his gut, all too common those days. It was hope; maybe this would be the one to make it. Maybe this would be the one to kill Colter.

The elevator brought one of the Pack up to the Fizztop Grille. He was young, skinny, and half-naked, small scraps of neon fur offering only the barest modesty. His hat, however, was a massive, intricate web of what looked like antlers, covering his entire head and face.

Gage wasn't particularly enamored of the Pack's fashion, but he couldn't deny that they could be some scary motherfuckers in a firefight. There was something primitively intimidating about a man running toward gunfire in a loincloth, brandishing a homemade assault rifle with a shovel for a handle, alternating between howling and laughing all the time.

This particular Pack looked like he would fold under a stiff breeze, but Gage knew that was a dangerous conceit. The Pack didn't entertain the weak, and even their lowliest members had to prove themselves in tests of bestial strength.

"There's somebody in the Gauntlet, 'Boss. But-"

"Good. I could use some fucking killing right now," Colter exclaimed lustily, interrupting the raider. Gage suddenly grew cold. There was something in his tone, some hint of… fear?

"What is it?" He asked, and the raider's head swiveled towards him. He couldn't see his expression, of course, but Gage knew he was afraid. It made sense; the alarms were enough to summon Colter for the usual Gauntlet runner. Sending a man was unusual, it meant something was different. And in the atrophying world of Nuka-World, different meant wrong.

"They aren't-"

"Shut the fuck up, Gage. Don't think I've forgotten our conversation. I'm gonna go let off some steam, but when I come back, we've got business to take care of," Colter said darkly.

"'Boss!" The Pack suddenly shouted. Colter turned on him with wrathful intent.

"What the fuck is your problem?" He demanded.

"It's the lady in the Gauntlet," he stammered quickly. "She didn't come in on the monorail. The Gauntlet's not even slowing her down. Redeye and Fritsch are trying, but she's almost through to the arena."

"What?" Colter said, almost simultaneously with Gage.

"You've gotta get down there, 'Boss. Quick."

They wasted no time. By the time Colter, Gage, and the young Pack had made it to the Cola-Cars arena, the endpoint of the Gauntlet, it was already teeming with nervous raiders. Everyone had weapons ready, fingers on triggers, and rapid gunfire could be heard unnervingly close by.

"Get the fuck out of my way!" Colter shouted, pushing his way through the crowd. Gage followed closely in his wake, trying to project the calm dignity that Colter wasn't. He had no idea if it made a difference, but it was what he thought to do.

Inside the Cola-Cars arena, or what had once been the Cola-Cars arena, the mood was even tenser. The three bosses were there, surprisingly, standing in a tight knot at the gate that led into the arena proper. Colter didn't spare them a single word, but went straight past them into the arena. His power armor, jury-rigged to project a protective energy field fed by the arena's local generators, stood a lonely sentry at the center, a massive hulk of metal and wires colored a faded crimson. It was Colter's baby, the only thing he'd ever created with his own hands, and he'd killed more than his fair share encased in its impenetrable shell.

While the Overboss got himself suited up, Gage turned his attentions to the bosses.

Nisha led the Disciples, a band of psychopathic butchers that obeyed no commandments but Nisha's: Don't get caught, and don't kill anyone from the other gangs. The first was stringently obeyed, the second was viewed as more of a dare. Gage thought they would all be better off with the Disciples buried in deep graves, but they were too damned good at murder to pass up.

Mason was the Pack Alpha. He embodied their ideal, a monument to physical strength and brute force. He was newer than the other two, having viciously murdered the previous leader of the Pack in a display of dominance, but had long since proved himself loyal and effective. Like any good dog.

Mags Black was in charge of the Operators, Nuka-World's token gangster faction. She, like her gang, was only in it for the caps, and was therefore the most reliable, yet least zealous, of the three. Colter didn't care for her, or her brother William, but if Gage had to pick one of the three leaders to take Colter's place, it would be her. Hopefully it didn't come to that.

"Well, what's happening that's got all three of you in one room?" He asked, and the three exchanged uneasy glances. Ultimately, it was Mags that spoke first.

"This one isn't like the others, Gage. She cut a hole in the wall to get in, and was almost here before she was spotted," she said.

"It's been one hell of a fight just trying to slow her down," Mason added, his muscles taught and ready. The slight pant in his voice indicated he wished he was currently participating in that fight.

"Have we lost anybody?" Gage asked. Nisha laughed, but said nothing.

"Yeah, Gage, we have. Round number puts it at twenty, but it'll probably be more once it all settles down," Mags said.

"Fucking _twenty_?"

"There's a reason we're all in attendance tonight," she responded tactfully.

The gunfire that Gage had only peripherally noticed suddenly ceased. Barely audible screams and moans filled the silence. It sounded like more than twenty. _Twenty goddamn raiders_!

"This'd better be one hell of a gal, or there'll be hell to pay," he warned them.

Then, an explosion blew a cloud of dust and rock into the arena, chunks of rock bouncing off Colter's electrified power armor. No one stepped through the hole in the wall, and as the dust settled Gage could see the locker room where victims were allowed to arm themselves before they died. Empty.

"Alright, _bitch_ , let's see what you're made of!" Colter screamed, gesturing with his rifle. Nothing happened. No one spoke. No one moved.

A grenade tumbled into the arena. It was cylindrical, larger than a fragmentation grenade, and was emblazoned with a bright yellow hazard symbol. It rolled to a stop right at Colter's feet, who stood dumbly staring at it.

"Is this a fucking-"

Gage squinted, and had just enough time to recognize it as a Nuka Grenade before it erupted in a blinding flash.


	4. Chapter 4

It all happened quickly. First, the new Overboss led them into the Kiddie Kingdom, and eradicated the ghouls that lived there. When the last of them had been killed, and the radiation dissipated, she gave it to the Disciples. There were rumors that it was a slight, that she did that to punish them for some offense; others thought it was just a twisted irony, the kind maniacs like the Disciples thrived on. There was no question, however, that this new Overboss meant business.

The World of Refreshment fell next, bequeathed to the Pack. The story of its taking spread like a disease, of the Overboss facing down a Queen Nukalurk, a hideous beast hideously warped by the Quantum that it lived in, and walking away without a scratch. It was repeated constantly by Red-Eye on the radio, and passed from raider to trader to wanderer, until it was common knowledge in Diamond City itself. It grew, as such things grow, in the telling, until it reached hyperbolically grandiose proportions. To hear a Triggerman in Goodneighbor tell it, this new raider boss was violence incarnate, able to kill Deathclaws with a 10mm and a sharp stick. The influx of recruits doubled within a month.

After the Bottling Plant came the Galactic Zone and Dry Rock Gulch, both for the Operators, and Safari Adventure for the Pack. Then it was done. Just like that. Nuka-World belonged, in its entirety, to the Raiders. The new Overboss had taken the whole fucking thing. And she was only getting started.

\----------------------------------------------

"We need to keep the momentum," Gage said, spreading a map across the table. The Overboss said nothing, but seemed contemplative. As far as he was concerned, that was good. Hell, it was more than he ever got from Colter.

The map was of the Commonwealth. He had marked a few locations on it, some of the larger settlements and trade hubs. Diamond City, Goodneighbor, Bunker Hill, and Vault 81 were the big ones, along with a few of the smaller, newer settlements like Sanctuary and Covenant. He had also marked some of the known raider bases, like Corvega Assembly Plant and Saugus Ironworks, and carved up large sections as Gunner territory. It was, as best as Gage knew, an accurate picture of all the major players in the Commonwealth. Except, of course, Nuka-World. But that would come later.

"Taking the park is great, it's fucking great, but if we stop now we're going to lose people," he said, trying to keep his voice monotone. He walked a fine line, between counsel and command. Under Colter, he had erred more to the side of command; under the new Overboss, he was still figuring it out.

"I've been hearing grumbling from some of the newer recruits," Mags Black added. She, along with her brother and Mason, were there for the meeting. That was something Colter had never done, and Gage wasn't sure if he liked it. It was good that the Overboss was keeping them in the loop, seeking their advice and input, but it also eroded some of his influence. Nisha also wasn't there, although Gage didn't know if the Overboss had deliberately excluded her, or if she had refused the summons. The Disciples were becoming erratic and rebellious. So far, the 'Boss had solicited no advice on that particular matter.

"They want sport. They want something to hunt," Mason said, and Mags nodded.

"We've never had so many recruits, and there isn't enough here in the park to sustain them for long. Not enough food, not enough chems, and not enough fighting. They're getting restless, and they're getting hungry," she said, pulling a holotape from a pocket and placing it on the table in front of the Overboss.

"The Operators run logistics for most of the park. That tape has records for our entire inventory. Everything from guns to shoelaces. And it had estimates for how much we'll take in over the next three months, and how much we'll need. It isn't pretty," she explained. Gage gestured over the map.

"That's why we need to go to the Commonwealth," he said. "There are resources aplenty there, ripe for the taking. All these new settlements are mostly farming communities, and the major hubs are flush with goods and caps. We can intimidate the farmers and rob the traders."

"But we'll need a presence there. We can't project power from here," Mags said.

"A Yao Guai up close is terrifying, but on the other side of a mountain, its growl is no fiercer than a mole rat's," Mason added. Gage had contemplated briefing the bosses before the meeting on what he was going to say, what he wanted them to say, but had decided against it. They were performing admirably even without his coaching.

"Exactly. Now, we have a man, Shank, who knows a lot about the Commonwealth. He's offered to coordinate jobs for us, to act as the point man for expansion east," Gage continued, but the 'Boss unexpectedly interrupted him.

"We can trust this guy?" She asked, softly. Her tone betrayed nothing.

"I think so. He's proven dependable in the past," he answered. That was mostly true. Shank was Gage's man, through and through, and had offered questionable loyalty to Colter, at best. But that was alright. Gage's only power was through influence, and he cultivated influence by dependency. Shank was an important part of that.

"He's done some work for us," William Black said. "He's too clever by half, but he's not disloyal."

"I don't know. If he gets too uppity, or starts thinking he's more important than he is, he might be trouble," Mason said. Gage suppressed a flare of irritation. The 'Boss wanted them here, she wanted their advice. She wanted the contrast. If they just parroted what he said, she might grow suspicious. Paranoid. And then they'd end up with Colter all over again.

"I don't think we have to worry about that. Besides, if his services don't satisfy, we can get rid of him. There's no commitment for us," Mags offered. Mason growled agreement. The Overboss's expression said nothing. It was blank, placid, like she wasn't even listening. It was unnerving.

"That's right. Shank is one of us, but if it comes down to it, he's replaceable. At the moment, though, he'll do the job. He can get us set up in the Commonwealth. I think-"

"Do we need him?" The Overboss asked.

"What?"

"Why do we need him?"

"Well, we need someone that can coordinate our efforts. Someone that can organize outposts, deploy people, run logistics between here and there," Gage said, keeping all emotion from his voice. That was not a question he had wanted her to be asking. Although, to be fair, he should have expected it. The new 'Boss was smarter than Colter, and wouldn't be satisfied quite as easily. It had already been almost six months, and he was still getting used to a boss that couldn't be convinced with simple appeals to bloodlust. Or normal lust.

"And the four of us can't do that?" She asked. There was a moment's silence.

"The Operators already handle supplies, and with the Disciples going to shit, we're picking up more of the traders as well," Mags said, thinking as she spoke. "We could handle eastward expansion on top of it. It wouldn't be that much different than what we do now."

"Mason could handle organization and deployment. He's got a knack for that," William said, glancing sidelong at the Pack leader. Mason looked thoughtful, an uncommon expression for him.

"I could," he said. When he offered no further explanation, Gage took the opportunity.

"Shank knows more about the Commonwealth than any of us. That kind of-"

"He doesn't know more than me," the 'Boss said quietly.

"Mags, would you be willing to surrender authority over your people to Mason, if he needed them in the Commonwealth?" Gage asked. He immediately regretted it. It was too much, too soon. It reeked of desperation. He watched the Overboss closely, while pretending not to, but noticed no reaction. He barely noticed Mags until she spoke.

"I wouldn't like it. I won't lie. But I think an arrangement could be made," she said. Gage was stunned. That was not the answer he had expected. He had expected flat rejection, maybe even hostility, at the very notion. Cooperation between the gangs was a tenuous thing at best, motivated primarily by their ambition, and hatred of Colter.

But now Colter was dead, and the new Overboss had handed them an opportunity for power beyond their wildest dreams. Perhaps he had miscalculated, underestimated her. He realized then that he was in over his head. That he was in danger. For years, he had relied on his influence over Colter, on his position as the middle man between the three gangs. Now that was all gone. The new Overboss didn't need him, didn't know him, and probably didn't trust him.

Gage said nothing.

"You wear too many clothes, Mags," was all Mason said in return. It was probably meant as some kind of olive branch.

"Fine. Good. I don't like this Shank guy; fuck him. We'll handle in internally," the 'Boss said, her eyes on Gage. He met her gaze, steeling himself against the emptiness it held. Suspicion, dissatisfaction, or distaste, he could handle. But that emptiness shook him. It told him nothing.

"Then the Operators will run logistics, the Pack will handle the muscle, Gage will coordinate, and you'll provide the big strategy. It's a good plan. It's solid," Mags said. Mason made noises of agreement.

"That's that, then," Gage said. His voice didn't shake. Surprisingly. He turned to the two bosses. "The 'Boss and I can meet again later this week, figure out the details. I'll relay her strategy to you after that. I think that's all for tonight."

The bosses nodded agreement, and stood to leave.

"No," the Overboss commanded. The two immediately sat. Mason looked vaguely confused, as if his body had responded before his mind had. Mags was passive. Her brother remained silent. Gage, again, said nothing. It was becoming a habit.

"The Disciples need to be handled," she said. It was the first time the subject had been broached between them. Sure, it had been a hot topic on the ground for weeks, but the 'Boss had said nothing, asked for nothing, ordered nothing. Gage had no idea what Mags and Mason thought about it, what they would say or advise. Hell, he still wasn't sure what he would advise. Especially not now.

"They feel dissatisfied," Mags said. "You only gave them one park, and there's been talk of certain… disrespects."

"Nisha hasn't been seen outside in over a week. Neither have her lieutenants," her brother offered. Gage thought he ran the Operators' spy ring, but they weren't exactly forthcoming with that particular bit of information.

"Did you invite her here tonight?" Mags asked. The Overboss nodded the affirmative.

"It's a challenge. She's testing you," Mason said.

"Do we know if she's planning anything?" Gage asked.

"A few of our people spotted some Disciples lurking around the old Power Plant. A few more were caught in the Bottling Plant," William said. A scheme involving either could be bad news, Gage knew.

"Mason?" The 'Boss asked, looking at the Pack leader. He grinned wolfishly.

"We had fun tearing them apart," he said. His expression warped into a grimace. "They told us nothing."

"I think breaking into the Bottling Plant was a feint," Mags said. "There's nothing there, and Nisha knows she couldn't take it if there were; the Pack outnumber the Disciples 3 to 1."

"I don't know," William said. "What could she want with the Power Plant? There's less there than at the Bottling Plant, it's further away from Kiddie Kingdom, and it offers no strategic advantage. If she could take World of Refreshment from the Pack, the Disciples would control the east side of the Park."

"What good does that do them, though?" Mags countered.

"Inherently? Nothing. But they have to start somewhere, and the Bottling Plant is the only adjacent section to Kiddie Kingdom. If they attacked Galactic Zone or Dry Rock Gulch, they'd bisect the park, and be surrounded on all sides. Same with Safari Adventure."

"Wait a second," Gage interrupted. "Are we just assuming that Nisha is planning revolt? Sure, they've grumbled about their treatment, but that doesn't mean they want to take over the park."

"What else could she want? To assassinate the Overboss?" Mags asked, her tone a shade too disdainful for Gage's liking.

"I'd like to see them try," the Overboss said quietly. That was all she offered in response.

"It's safe to assume that they're planning _something_. Nothing makes more sense than rebellion," Mason said.

"Nisha isn't the type to ask for a redress of grievances," Mags responded wryly. Mason chuckled. Gage noticed a dark expression cross the Overboss's face. She said nothing, and in a moment it was gone.

"If I were planning a revolt," Mags continued, "I'd have two major targets. First, the monorail. Nothing, except for our brilliant and resourceful leader, gets in or out of Nuka-World without it."

Gage winced at the reference to the Overboss's spectacular entrance. There was a long way out of the valley, but it could take weeks, and was extremely treacherous. As far as Gage could estimate, it had taken the 'Boss two days. She had never offered any details, and he was not about to ask for them.

"Second, us. Probably as a group," she said.

"Now, Mason here is too badass to risk direct confrontation," William picked up, "So you'd be better off rigging up a bomb or something to take us all out at once."

The Pack leader grinned, and the two exchanged looks.

"In all seriousness," Mags continued, "We need to be prepared in the event of an attack. And an attack is most likely to have those two targets."

"How can we protect the monorail?" Gage asked. Something was happening, he could feel it. An idea was taking shape, taking root, in the recesses of his mind. He couldn't have identified it then, not even if he'd wanted to. But it was there, and he knew it.

"The Disciples don't have explosives, at least not anything bigger than a frag, which isn't enough to severely damage the monorail. Which is good, because we don't have the manpower to secure the whole thing," Mags said.

"So, all we need to do is protect the terminal," her brother continued.

"Ten men should be enough, if they're the right men," Mason said. Mags nodded in agreement.

"The Gauntlet separates the terminal from the park proper, which means it's easy to control access. Ten is plenty," she said.

"Us, then?" The Overboss asked. Mags shifted in her chair, and Mason frowned. William did nothing, but was obviously deep in thought.

"Nisha's not dumb enough to attack us individually. The risk of one surviving and warning the others is too high," Mags said, thinking aloud.

"What if we split up? Meet secretly, if at all, until Nisha's been dealt with," Gage said. The others seemed to consider it. Mason nodded, but Mags shook her head.

"No dice, Gage. There's no telling when, or even if, Nisha's going to try something. And I can't see the 'Boss playing spy games to coordinate secret meetings," she said derisively.

"Then we attack first. Preempt whatever Nisha's planning, and finish it ourselves," Mason said.

"The Disciples haven't left their basement in weeks. The whole damn bunch is down there, and they're holed up good," William said.

"We could lure them out. Some of them, at least. Then storm the place and clear it out. We'd take casualties, but we'd win," Mason persisted.

"We stand a better chance waiting for them to move, and playing a defensive game," Mags disagreed. "We'd win either way, but we'd lose less defending."

"Okay. So we split up. The Operators shore up Galactic Zone and the Gulch, Mason moves the Pack into Safari and the Bottling Plant, the 'Boss and I take some of each and hold Fizztop and Nuka-Town," Gage said. The Overboss was watching him, he noticed, but her eyes said nothing about why.

"Once we do that, Nisha will see it for what it is. It might be enough to lure her into attacking right away," William said, although he sounded unconvinced.

"We'll do it. Let's talk tactics," the Overboss said. It was decided. Gage felt relieved, and wasn't sure why. His idea was becoming a sharper image, and what he saw unnerved him. And the Overboss was watching him.

"Alright," Mags said. She didn't sound pleased with the Overboss's decision, but she didn't protest. That had happened all the time under Colter, but this time, Gage got the feeling she meant it. Out of respect, or fear, or both, they would obey.

"Galactic Zone," the Overboss said, gesturing broadly in that direction.

"Well, the Disciples' greatest strength is stealth. They'll try infiltration, surprise attacks, etcetera. At Galactic Zone, the best move is to beeline for the-" Mags started, but the Overboss cut her off.

"The Disciples are better one-on-one than the Operators or the Pack. But they lack numbers and firepower. Keep them in the open, outside the walls, and they're dead on the ground," she said. Mags frowned, and started to speak.

"That's what you'll do. End of it. In fact, that's what we'll do across the whole park," she said over Mags. The Operator seemed equally confused as angry, but kept her mouth shut. Mason was eyeing the Overboss incredulously, and Gage was pointedly not doing the same.

"'Boss, I think-" Gage started to say.

"Best if you don't, Gage," she interrupted. "That's all for now. Go, make your preparations. I want you all back here tomorrow at noon."

The Overboss stood, collected Gage's map and the Operator's holotape, and retreated into her quarters without another word. The four remaining looked at each other, startled and bewildered.

"Mags, Mason, you do what you think is best. If that means-" Gage began.

"We'll do what the Overboss said to, Gage," Mags said. Mason grunted agreement.

"Defending your sections of the park is more important-"

"Shut up, Gage. The Overboss said what she wanted to do. That's what we're going to do," Mason interrupted gruffly. He and Mags stood, with William belatedly copying, and left. Together. Gage was alone, sitting in his chair, staring over Nuka-Town. Finally beyond sight, the sun was below the edge of the horizon. A few raiders milled about below, but most had retreated into their gang's sanctuary.

Gage watched for a while longer. Then, he stood, and rode the elevator down to the ground. He walked, not thinking about where he was headed. Eventually, he found himself in the old arcade, surrounded by the flashing lights and whimsical noises. Fritsch was there, of course, and a few others. Not many though. Gage looked around, not really seeing what he was looking at, not really hearing what he was listening to.

He wandered out, and wandered until the sun rose again, and it was morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Gage rode the elevator to the top of Fizztop Mountain. It was almost noon, almost time for the final meeting with the Overboss before the Disciples' predicted betrayal.

As far as he knew, Mags and Mason weren't there yet; they hadn't shown up in the past hour he'd been watching the place. He'd been sitting on the fountain's rim, thinking, for that time. Thinking about what was about to happen. If the other three were right, if the Disciples were planning an imminent attack, everything was going to change. Quickly. And they had to be ready for it.

He reached the top.

"Gage. You're early," said Mags. She was there. Mason was there. And so was the Overboss. They were all sitting together around the bar, a couple of maps and holodisks strewn across its surface.

"I see you've started without me," he said cautiously. Very cautiously, even as panic started to grip him. They were holding meetings without him. They were excluding him, pushing him out. The Overboss didn't trust him.

No. He had to hold it together. He didn't have all the facts; all he had was an incomplete picture. What remained, then, was to gather the facts. He had to complete the picture.

"Yeah. We're almost done. Sit down," the Overboss said. Her tone was as dull as usual, revealing nothing. But Mason was watching him. On the surface, it was just the Alpha's usual predatory scrutiny. But deeper, beneath the surface, Gage knew it was something else. It wasn't the usual measurement of a potential competitor; it was the measurement of a potential foe. A subtle distinction, but to Gage it made all the difference.

He was in danger.

He sat down, between Mason and the Overboss, directly across from the latter.

"Continue," he said. He tried to sound nonchalant. It didn't work.

"As I was saying, we have a man who says he can get the power plant up and running again. Given a few days, and favorable conditions," Mags said. Mason nodded his agreement.

"The place is overrun by ghouls, but we can clear it out with half a dozen men," he said.

"I think a dozen men, a mix of Operators and Pack, could secure and defend it handily. We can spare the people, if Mason can," Mags continued. Mason grunted the affirmative.

"Then that's it. Do it," the Overboss said. The two bosses stood, gathering their paraphernalia, and made to leave.

"Wait, what about the Disciples?" Gage asked. He'd expected a tussle over the Overboss's ridiculous orders the last time they'd met, expected some kind of rational tactical plan to be developed. But they were leaving.

"We talked about it. We have a plan," Mags said, gesturing towards Mason and the Overboss.

"You don't think I need to know about it? Maybe I'd have some input?" Gage asked, trying to disguise his fear with anger. It was fear that was gripping him, of course. Not anger.

"No," was all the Overboss offered to answer. "Unless you have something to add about the power plant, we're done here."

"I… I see. No, I have nothing to say about the power plant," he said. Mags and Mason got into the elevator. He stood, and followed after them.

He didn't know what he was going to do. Their rejection couldn't have been more obvious if they'd killed him then and there. Where did he go wrong? Possibilities and recriminations and fears ran wild through his head, defying his every attempt at control and order. As the elevator fell, what had previously been a seed sprouted, rapidly forming into an idea.

"Give it time, Gage. She doesn't trust you now, but you can earn it. Give it time," Mason said suddenly, placing a large hand over Gage's shoulder. Gage barely heard him.

He was going to be betrayed. It was only a matter of time, now. He could flee Nuka-World, head in any direction except east. She could follow him east. He could go south, make for the Capital Wasteland. He had contacts there, friends of friends of friends that would take him in. Or he could go west, walk the endless wastes towards the West Coast and the rumors of rebuilt civilization. North, too, was a possibility. Not much lived up there, but there was talk of enclaves, safe havens against the bitter cold.

But he knew leaving wasn't really an option. He'd built this place, brought together the three gangs and led them into Nuka-World. What they'd accomplished together belonged more to him than anyone else. More than this new Overboss, for sure.

That was the root of his problem. She was the root of his problem. Everything had been fine before she'd arrived. Colter was a moron, but he'd been manageable. Gage had been safe and secure. Then she killed him and took his place, and Gage was about to be killed. He was about to be killed.

Old instincts finally kicked in, powerful impulses etched into his psyche by many hard years as a raider in the wasteland, that wrestled his fear under control. Kill or be killed. _Kill or be killed_.

The elevator hit the ground. Mason and Mags went out, huddled together in quiet conversation, towards their dens. They weren't watching him. The idea solidified. _Kill or be killed_. His feet carried him forward, carried him towards salvation. _Kill or be killed_.

He was there. If he was caught, he'd die. Maybe it would a quick, merciful death.

_Kill or be killed_.

He knocked on the door to the Disciples' den.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

I was ready when he came. The whirr of the elevator's motors cut through the quiet, carrying him upwards into my web.

Mags and Mason flanked me, along with a handpicked cadre of raiders to bear witness. I wanted witnesses.

My fingers clenched around the shaft of the baseball bat I held. I'd wrapped a chain around it for a bit of extra punch. It'd be worth it. Oh, yes. It was all about to pay off.

The elevator reached the top. Gage stepped off, and stopped at the threshold. I could see it in his eye. Fear. _The fear_.

"What's going on?" He asked. He put on a good show for the others, I thought, but he couldn't hide it from me. He couldn't hide anything from me.

"You betrayed us to the Disciples, Gage," Mags said. Just as I'd told her to. Everything was coming together.

"I did not. No. I did no such thing," he stammered. How quickly he broke down.

"We were watching you, Gage. We've been watching you," Mason said.

"I didn't tell them anything. I didn't give away our plans. I…"

"No, you didn't. We know you didn't. Because you don't know our plans," Mags said.

"The plans… Keep them at the walls…"

"No, Gage. The Overboss anticipated your betrayal. Those aren't our plans."

Understanding settled in on Gage. Horrible revelation. I stepped towards him, took his gun and threw it over the balcony.

How gullible. To his credit, he'd grasped very quickly that I didn't trust him, that I was getting ready to cast him out. But he was too used to knowing everything, to being the man at the center of it all.

That was finished.

"Whatever you're going to do, let's do it quickly," he said defiantly. I couldn't help but laugh. Quickly. It wasn't going to be quick. Whatever it was going to be, it wouldn't be quick.

"Are you ready, Gage?" I asked. He snarled, ready to snap back some retort. I cut him off.

"I killed Colter. I took this park back from the monsters that held it. But that was just a warm-up, to get the blood pumping. Now, I'm going to get _really fucking_ crazy!"

I hit him over the head with the bat.

I'd sat around for long enough. I'd let Gage write the story for long enough. It was time for me to get busy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, folks, this is where it heats up. Be ready.

The Disciples attacked, as had been predicted. They struck each section simultaneously, sent out from their stronghold at Kiddie Kingdom.

At Galactic Zone, they met no resistance. They poured in, with as many as their numbers and stealth would allow. When they were all inside, the gates were shut, sealed. The robots, made silent by the Overboss's efforts, suddenly turned to life. The Disciples were slaughtered. There were no survivors.

At the Bottling Plant, there was no trickery. With no walls to hide behind, the Pack met the Disciples in the open field. There was one survivor, a man.

At Dry Rock Gulch, the Operators allowed the Disciples to push them back from the walls. Once inside, the Disciples found nothing. They searched the park, building by building, until only one building remained. The Disciples entered Mad Mulligan's Mine, and found nothing there too. Some realized the trap before it was sprung, but they were too late. Explosives detonated, and the mine collapsed. Two Disciples were outside when it happened, a man and a woman, and they were the only survivors.

At Safari Adventure, the Disciples fell prey to the same trap. They filtered into the park, silently and in great numbers. All they found were hideous beasts, trapped behind cages. Impotent beasts, until the cage doors were flung open, and the Gatorclaws rampaged forth. Those that tried to flee were met by the Pack. There was one survivor, a woman.

At the Power Plant, a token force of Disciples attacked. Though they did not know it, they had been sent to die. Nisha knew of the defenses there, knew that far more than an errant pack of feral ghouls would be holding it. But her people did not. And so they died. There was one survivor, a woman.

And at Nuka-Town, the Disciples were fought in the streets. They were fought, and they were killed. There were no survivors.

At Kiddie Kingdom, Nisha surveyed the park. When it became apparent that her revolt was doomed, when each attack was swiftly and brutally crushed, she fled.

When the fighting was done, and the Overboss was known to be victorious, the garrison at the Power Plant flipped a switch. Nuka-World lit up, for the first time in two hundred years.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

I stood in the middle of the dead. The loyal reaped and raped among the disloyal, claiming the many spoils of victory. There were casualties on my side, but I didn't care. The Disciples had been broken, drawn and quartered, and utterly annihilated. Even that failed to stir me. But the blood on my face, across my chest, in my hair, under my fingernails? It was the blood of people that had wanted mine, that had betrayed me. That had tried to take what was mine. I took another breath; they'd failed.

The guy under my boot writhed and screamed, dying impotently, clutching at my ankle with pathetic fervor. He looked vaguely familiar. There weren't many male Disciples. I knelt, pressing my knee into his ribs, and looked into his eyes. He was an ugly son of a bitch. Especially since both his legs were missing; short men never were my style. Red spittle stained the edges of his mouth, and his eyes were wild, frantically trying to plead with me over his own howls.

I thought for a moment.

"Hey, kid," I said. A couple Operators close enough to hear me looked our way, but quickly went back to their looting. The Disciple was able to stifle his screams, barely. A glimmer of hope seized him. Poor guy.

I held up my middle finger for his examination. He stared at it, uncomprehending.

"I want to make you squirm a little before you die," I said. As fear took him again, I slowly touched the palm of my finger against his eye. Held it there. He flinched, squinted, as even more tears flooded out.

"If I pushed it through your eye socket, do you think my finger would reach your brain?"

He screamed. It didn't.

I stood up, and crushed his skull with my boot. It took a couple whacks, but I was pretty strong. We had a small audience by then, mostly idiots too high to be horrified by what they were seeing. There were a couple of the real sick fuckers that seemed to be getting off, and a handful of the morbidly curious. I could tell which was which without much trouble. Only one of them caught my attention. He wasn't looking at the dead Disciple; he was looking at me.

The guy was tall, skinny as a rail, and had a definite pretty-boy look. Unkempt reddish hair, a thin angular face, and large green eyes that really didn't jive with the brain-matter splattered over the ground. He didn't look like an Operator, and definitely wasn't with the Pack. His expression was blank, his eyes gave nothing away. Apparently he didn't find the object of his attention very interesting. And he was staring at _me_. Not the dead guy without legs and missing a head, still twitching as his brain juices seeped out.

I didn't like that one fucking bit.

"You." I pointed at him. He stepped forward. His look didn't change. Everyone else, however, looked scared shitless. Well, mostly. A couple of the sadist-types looked excited, and a couple of the junkies didn't look like they'd noticed. But this guy? Not a fucking flinch.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Jerry," he said. His voice was a low, nasal monotone, but the man _projected_. He didn't say it very loudly, but I saw heads turn on the other side of the fountain. And Jerry made _me_ sound warm and maternal.

"Who are you with?"

"You."

Motherfucker. I thought about shooting him right then and there. Maybe kneecap him and rip his throat out. A couple different options ran through my head.

"Boss?" It was Mags. Apparently the defense at Galactic Zone had been successful. I wasn't surprised.

"Yeah?" I turned to face her, keeping Jerry in my peripheral. Mags gave one pointed look at the body I was still standing on, and then ignored it for the rest of the conversation.

"Galactic Zone is secure. So is the Gulch. Snipers say the Bottling Plant and Safari are solid," she reported. Her brother joined us. He did not have his sister's impeccable self-control, and kept glancing at my corpse.

"Kiddie Kingdom is empty," he said. I didn't curse, but I did grind my heel into my poor corpse's chest. _She_ had gotten away. The bitch wouldn't have been at Safari Adventure or the World of Refreshment, and Mags would know if she'd shown at the Operator's territory. And I knew she hadn't been with me.

Mags was watching me, clearly catching my reaction.

"She could have gone to Safari or the Bottling Plant," she said.

"The bitch escaped," I interrupted. Mags grimaced, but nodded.

"It seems that way."

I said nothing. I did nothing. I just stood on top of my corpse, and stared a hole through Mags Black. Fury wasn't quite accurate. I wasn't angry, really. But an image seared itself into my mind. An image of the traitor Nisha, dead. It wasn't a very specific, or graphic image. Just Nisha, lying dead on the ground.

Mason showed up before long. He was almost as gory as me, made more pronounced by his much less substantial clothing, and he was grinning from ear to ear. Well, he was, until he took stock of the atmosphere and decided it was better for his health to join us in silent death-glare.

"Until we find her, and kill her, nothing happens," I said. The two bosses nodded.

"That is our absolute priority, Boss," Mags said.

"The Pack won't rest until she's dead," Mason agreed.

I stepped off the guy's corpse. When I turned around to kill Jerry, he wasn't there.

The crowd had dispersed, back to picking clean the dead. Some of the less scrupulous had taken to fucking corpses, right there in the open, without a care in the world; they were largely ignored, except for the occasional disgusted insult. Many of those disgusted raiders went on to take their turn with the few surviving Disciples, male and female, who had quickly been strung up at the Marketplace to be raped and tortured. A long time ago, the hypocrisy would have horrified me. A shorter time ago, it would have amused me. Now, it barely registered.

Gage was at the mountaintop. Where I'd left him. I pulled out a stool, and sat in front of him. He looked tired and scared. A pool of murky white fluid, tinged crimson, between his legs said the guard I'd posted had recreated himself on my prisoner. That was alright with me.

I lit up a cigarette. It was a bad habit, but there were cigarettes fucking everywhere, and ancient booze got boring after a while. And I wasn't about to shoot those shitty chems raiders liked so much.

The sun set while I smoked.

When I was done, I put the cigarette out on Gage's shoulder. The gag muffled most of his cry, but not all of it. With the sound still ringing in my ears, and Nisha in my mind's eye, I went to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, really, this is where it heats up. Nasty stuff. Be ready.

Jerry sat on the fountain's rim, a cool Nuka-Cola in his left hand, a pistol in his right. All around him, sounds of battle's aftermath clamored. There had been about fifty Disciples attacking Fizztop Mountain, but the racket made it seem like a hundred. The dying weren't the only ones making noise though, he conceded.

A few feet away, one of the Pack had found a Disciple who'd died from a shot to the chest. He was kind of good-looking, Jerry thought, and the Pack had apparently agreed. He'd flipped the corpse over, and within moments both had been relieved of pants. The guy wrestled and groped the corpse for a while, biting and hitting where it was appropriate. Jerry had watched as the Pack had, now primed for action, thrust into the corpse with a single motion. He'd stopped for a second, letting the dead flesh settle into place, before setting a fast, savage rhythm. And, a few minutes later, he was still there, groaning as he approached his lustful climax. His partner, of course, was silent. Unless you counted the slapping noise it made when crotch met ass. Jerry didn't think that counted.

He took a drink.

A quick glance around yielded two or three similar displays, but most of the raiders were solemnly at work, picking over the dead for caps, drugs, and bullets. Disciples weren't known for using guns, though, didn't have much use for caps, and weren't as fond of chems as most other raiders. So there wasn't much to be found. Still, once in a while, someone would get lucky, and find a purse full of caps, or a tricked-out knife worth at least a hundred at market, or the rare junkie Disciple with a pocketful of Jet. Jerry had already looted about sixty caps, a couple knives, a helmet with a symbol carved on the forehead that looked badass.

He took a drink.

A few unlucky bastards had been tasked with dragging the dead out of Nuka-Town, to be stripped and burned in one of the parking lots. These were all the freshest recruits, mostly Operators, and they went at their duties with titanic resentment and loose ethic. Jerry himself was relatively new to Nuka-World, drawn by the stories of the new Overboss and her various herculean deeds, but more poured in every day. They were mostly looking for the same things. Chems, caps, violence, sex, stability, a roof over their heads. According to the order they put those things in, they filtered into either the Operators or the Pack. It had been two months since the Disciples had taken in new recruits, and now their doors were permanently shut.

He took a drink.

Rigor mortis had apparently set in on the Pack's partner, tightening choice muscles, and he gave a bestial howl as he emptied himself into the cold body. He had to wait before pulling out, and it seemed a touch painful as he did. He yanked his pants up from around his ankles, and wandered, satisfied, towards the Pack's den. Or maybe he wasn't satisfied, and was headed towards the Marketplace to fuck something that could still fuck back.

Jerry emptied the Nuka-Cola with a final swig, and tossed it backwards into the fountain. He stood, stretching his legs pleasurably, and strolled after the Pack.

Not all of the new recruits went to the Operators or the Pack, though. Some were holding out. They'd been attracted to Nuka-World by the Overboss, and she was the one they wanted to serve. Mags and Mason were nobodies to them, just lieutenants, shadows of the real-fucking-deal. Over time, these outsiders had coalesced into an informal cadre, loyal to the Overboss directly. Jerry was, in a sense, their leader. He had been the first that he knew of, to deny the three gangs, and hold out for the top man herself. Quickly, though, as recruitment skyrocketed and the Boss personally blazed the path into the wildest corners of the park, he had been joined by others of similar convictions. Before too long, Jerry found himself leading over fifty raiders. It was only a fraction of the hundreds being pulled into the Operators and the Pack, but it was still significant.

He wandered towards the direction of laughter, moaning, and screaming. Tonight was for victory, a night for reveling and merriment. The Marketplace was full to the brim, even after all the slaves had been ejected to make room. From corner to corner, on the ground, draped across tables and counters, raiders were engaged in every form of debauchery. The center of it all were the prisoners.

There were only five, but they had all been hastily strung up for the general amusement. Three were women, and they received the worst of it. The men were mostly tortured with knives and hot things, although occasionally someone would bend them over, or fluff them up until they could be ridden. The women, though, were spared the violent tortures, for what it was worth. They were passed from man to man, every hole filled by an eager stiff. Sometimes another woman would take her turn, but that was rare. While they waited for their turns, the others indulged in chems of every variety, except Mentats, in booze, in more consensual intimacies.

Jerry had little patience for rape. He did not begrudge it to his comrades, but he considered it no more fun than fucking one of the corpses outside. Chems, too, he abstained from. He valued a clear, focused mind, no matter the occasion. But he liked to watch.

He found a seat in a relatively light section of the Marketplace. From there, he could see most of the festivities, from the prisoners in the center, to the various orgiastic enclaves. He stole a Nuka-Cola from the counter behind him, and popped the cap, which he tucked automatically into a pocket. It was the Wild variety, which he didn't particularly like. But it was cold. He took a drink.

Mason, the leader of the Pack, was there, at the center of a massive heap of naked bodies. His face was between the legs of a moaning woman, her back arched to indicate he was making progress, and another woman was satisfying him orally. Jerry watched him carefully, noticing the tense way he held himself, even in that position of blissful pleasure. He was formidable, of course, but it was easy to forget that he claimed and maintained his position through constant vigilance and brutal reprisal against the slightest challenge. It required both physical might and a savage cleverness to be Alpha of the Pack, and Jerry knew it was death to discount the latter in the overwhelming evidence of the former.

He took a drink.

Mags Black was not there, which was little surprise, but her brother was. He was engaged in the same pile as Mason, a noticeably short distance away. Jerry saw William's eyes drift from the woman he was fucking towards the Pack's Alpha, and he saw the way William's steady thrusting stuttered when his gaze found its target. Jerry didn't know if it was reciprocal, but the Operator's second-in-command seemed to be rather enamored of Mason. It was an interesting and valuable relationship to take note of, and file away.

He took a drink.

The Overboss, of course, did not make an appearance. A quite drunk, and probably stoned, Operator was boasting loudly about raping the disgraced and imprisoned Gage, although he was being consistently ignored. Jerry didn't know if it was true, but it was certainly plausible. Everyone knew about Gage's fall from grace, about his involvement in Nisha's treacherous plot, and about his imprisonment at the top of Fizztop Mountain. And it seemed likely that the Overboss would have someone stay with him during the battle, to keep an eye on him. That this guard would take the opportunity for a display of dominance over the once-mighty Gage seemed just as likely. But inebriated bravado was hardly evidence, so Jerry withheld judgement. It wasn't likely to matter, in the end, but it could testify to the Overboss's character, to her ruthlessness.

He took a drink.

Jordan, one of Jerry's compatriots, took the stool beside his. He had just finished a round on one of the female prisoners, and he looked sleepily content. Although the many sights and sounds of the Marketplace were very quickly rejuvenating his spirit.

"Not one for fun, are you Jerry?" He asked, smiling broadly. Jerry snorted, and set aside his Nuka-Cola.

"Not this kind," he answered. Jordan shook his head in mock disappointment. Jerry's temperament and proclivities were well known among his people, although reactions to them varied. Most couldn't care less, but some found it disturbing. A raider that didn't rape, didn't do chems, didn't torture, and barely drank? It wasn't a common sight, to be sure.

"And you don't go for bitches anyway, do you? I don't think the guys are up for much fun, anymore," Jordan said. So it was. The prolonged tortures had taken their toll on the two male prisoners. One had already passed out, and might very well have been dead. The other was not far behind. Raping them would truly be no different than one of the corpses, now. Similarly, one of the women looked on the verge of unconsciousness from the hours of abuse.

"Well, Jerry, I think my balls are full again. Back at it," he said, and he slid back into the crowd. A few moments later, Jerry saw him mounting a Pack woman, eager and enthusiastic like this was his first time of the night. Jerry grabbed his Nuka-Cola back from the counter.

He took a drink. It was almost empty, and he didn't see another one.

Things would be different tomorrow, he thought. With the Disciples gone, the balance of power in Nuka-World would be irrevocably changed. War between the two remaining gangs was very possible, without the threatening check of the third, despite the zeal of their current entanglements. To Jerry, two things were necessary to keep Nuka-World alive. First, the Overboss had to seize greater authority from the two bosses. A centralized, charismatic leader could keep the Operators and Pack from each other's throats, but only for a while. So, second, they had to enter the Commonwealth. Rumors swirled before the Disciples rebelled that the Overboss had held a secret meeting and authored a plan to invade the Commonwealth, and Jerry knew it had to be true. They needed a mutual goal, a foundational purpose for an alliance to coalesce around. And the only thing that could provide that for them now was east. The west was untamed and barren, for overeager farmers to settle in before the wastes ate them alive. But the east was rich, full of people and resources for the taking.

Jerry had worked out a rough plan for it that he thought would take fullest advantage of their strategic resources. The Operators already controlled logistics for the park, and could extend it to the Commonwealth. They could manage the flow of money, guns, food, water, and bullets both to and from Nuka-World. It would require a much larger organization than currently existed, but he didn't doubt Mags Black was capable of building it. Staffing it might be more difficult, since most people who became raiders weren't the bureaucratic type. They might have to expand their recruitment efforts, instead of relying on rumors and hyperboles to draw people in. The Pack, then, would provide the mass for the invasion. Manpower, tactics, and deployments. That, too, would need an organizational structure that the Pack, particularly, was woefully unprepared to staff. Mason was undoubtedly a capable tactician and warrior, but Jerry was less impressed with his ability to effectively delegate responsibilities and manage his subordinates. On the other hand, the Pack had a solid hierarchy that could prove easy to adapt towards large-scale operations.

Finally, and most importantly, the Overboss would provide the grand strategy. No one knew who she was, or where specifically she came from, but everyone knew she was from the Commonwealth. And everyone knew she had singlehandedly infiltrated the valley and assaulted Nuka-Town, killing the previous Overboss and taking the title for herself. Jerry knew she was experienced, and suspected that she was intimately familiar with the Commonwealth. She would scheme their overall plan, choose targets and locate outposts, navigate the tangled mess of factions and settlements that covered Boston.

It was a good way of doing it. Jerry expected it to be very similar to the plan the bosses had already devised, and he expected it to work.

He finished his drink.

He surveyed the building a final time, for good measure. Mason was finished with oral sex, and was fucking a lucky gal into the ground. Her howls were rather exaggerated, Jerry thought, but she was probably stoned out of her mind. William had found the woman who'd been previously servicing Mason, and was very forcefully using her in the same capacity. Perhaps he got off on the idea that his cock was filling the same space Mason's had. The boastful raider had shut up; huge amounts of Med-X tended to have that effect. Jordan was having another go at one of the female prisoners, taking her violently from behind as an Operator used her throat. One of the other female captives looked dead, but a particularly lusty Pack was still having his way with her.

Leaving the Marketplace behind, Jerry started towards the Nuka-Cade. His people were spread all through the park. Some slept with the Pack, some with the Operators, some with the Disciples before they'd been tossed out. Tonight, though, most of them would probably spend all night at the Marketplace. Jerry slept at the arcade. The noises and lights helped him sleep, relaxed him. And no one gang controlled it, which made it perfect for the leader of the fledgling unofficial third gang.

He took a deep breath of the night air. Summer was behind them, and the air was crisp, cool. Not cold, not yet, but he could taste the coming freeze. Lights flickered in the distance, silhouetting Fizztop Mountain; those fires would be burning all night, and all day tomorrow. Jerry stopped in front of the arcade, staring up at the peak of the mountain. It was lit up, but he could see no movement. He wondered if the Overboss had already gone to sleep. He wondered if Gage was dead yet.

He didn't wonder long. Jerry went inside, and half an hour later, he was asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning after the Disciples' attack came and passed without incident. But everyone knew fighting was inevitable, and so it was.

To no great surprise, it broke out over the Disciples' headquarters within Fizztop Mountain. The Operators got there first, and the plunder began under the careful direction of some well-intentioned sub-lieutenant. The Disciples' didn't deal in the traditional raider staples, but there were riches to be had nonetheless. There were about a dozen, mostly newer recruits led by a couple of older veterans. It was, true to the Operator modus operandi, methodical and precise.

Until the Pack arrived. They came in numbers, upwards of thirty, a loosely formed mob that grew around a nameless, rank-less man with a purpose. They were stopped by the two Operators left behind to stand guard. The confrontation was tense. Words were exchanged, reasons and rationales degenerated into insults and threats. The words were traded for violence. The two guards managed to kill a handful before they were torn limb from limb by the wild mob.

The noise, however, alerted those within. When the Pack burst through the doors, they were met with a hail of gunfire. Those unlucky enough to be in the first wave were cut to pieces, and a number were trampled as the mob surged backwards. Grenades and molotov cocktails followed them. But the Pack were savvy, and they threw their own bombs through the doors. While the explosions still sang, the Pack charged.

When the dust settled, and the wounded bled out, there were six survivors. Two Operators, four Pack. Others arrived quickly, led by Mason and Mags, to claim the dead and the living. The Overboss did not appear, but it was under her specter that they worked. There was no more fighting at Nuka-World that day.

\-----------------------------------------------------

I wasn't looking at them. I sat on my stool, contemplating the chained and gagged Gage. Every once in a while, as if to remind myself he was real, I'd reach out and touch him. Light touches, on his face or shoulders or chest. He might have been asleep, or unconscious, or faking either one. It didn't matter. He was going to die soon.

"There were no survivors, Boss. It was over less than five minutes after it started. We've both ordered our people to segregate, and keep to our own sections of the park," Mags said. Her voice uncharacteristically betrayed her anxiety. It was telling.

"There's been no more fighting in the park," Mason added. He, too, sounded anxious.

They were scared of me. No, better. They were terrified of me. Good.

"The survivors are being held in the Marketplace," Mags said, the question not stated but implied.

What did I want to do with them? I wanted to kill them, of course. How didn't matter. Only when. Now. It had to be now. I could finish Gage at the same time. Or maybe I'd let volunteers rape him to death later. Privately, with just me and the bosses to watch. No. Publicly. They all had to be punished publicly.

"I'll do it myself," I said quietly. I heard Mags stand, heard her take a breath to speak, heard her swallow it.

"Of course, Boss. Where?" Mason asked. It was a good question. I didn't care. I really didn't care. The only thing that mattered was that they died, that they died violently and painfully, and that everyone in Nuka-World knew it. Slowly, fighting against the overwhelming inertia of apathy, I found an answer.

"Here. In the basin. Get everyone around it, so they can see."

"We'll get it done, Boss," Mason said.

"As quickly as possible," Mags finished. They didn't leave. I could tell they wanted to say more, wanted to beg forgiveness, to beg for mercy. But they weren't sure if they needed to. Maybe I wasn't going to punish them, only those that had broken the rules. They didn't know.

"Boss, it won't happen again. It won't," Mags said at last. Mason grunted agreement. I reached out, and stroked the side of Gage's head. Gentle, intimate. His eyes flickered behind their lids. His Adam's apple moved as he stifled the urge to swallow. He was awake.

"No, it won't," I said. It wouldn't. If it did, I'd kill them both. I didn't care what would happen after that. Fighting between the gangs was tantamount to rebellion, and I would not tolerate rebellion. I would not.

"Of course. Thank you," Mags said. They left, riding the elevator down to the ground. I could hear their voices, growing fainter as they descended, but I couldn't hear the words. I didn't want to hear the words. I just wanted to hear Gage, and Nisha, and those six idiots; I wanted to hear them scream and die.

Not yet. I couldn't have it yet. But one of them was there. Right in front of me. I could make him hurt.

I touched Gage's chest, so lightly, and ran my fingertips over his nipples. His penis twitched, involuntarily reacting to my touch. He knew I was going to kill him, knew that whatever I was doing to him was just a prelude to horrible agony. His mind knew it, but his body didn't. It was dumb, a thing of instincts and responses. Touch here, rub there, and it couldn't tell between a lover and a reaper. I savored the irony. My hands ghosted across his body, ruthlessly manipulating the flesh towards orgasm.

Gage opened his eyes at last. He was sweating, his lip quivered, and his eyes were filled with fear. He couldn't help himself, couldn't stop the thrilling sensation that wracked his traitorous flesh. I was going to hurt him, I was going to kill him. He hated me, he feared me. But that didn't matter to his flesh. It only knew the pleasure I gave it, not what lay behind it. But Gage knew. His mind understood, and that was what I wanted. Torturing the body was pointless; it was built to endure pain. But the mind was a more subtle machine, more delicate. To torture the mind was to torture the soul.

I got to my knees, straddling him. My hands worked at him, edging him closer and closer. He met my eye for a moment, a brief moment. Defiance flashed, a spark of strength that fought against me, against what I was doing to him. But it was only a moment. The spark failed to catch fire, the flash faded. All that was left to him then was the cold touch of my hands, and the bittersweet finale that was coming.

At last, he orgasmed, gushing thick ropes of ejaculate across his torso. And he was crying. That made me smile. Even as he was flooded with pleasure, he was crying. Because at the other end of that torrential ecstasy was me.

I hadn't cleaned him, not after his guard had used him, and I wasn't going to clean him now. The damp smell of semen would join the stench of shit and piss, blend together until he lost all ability to smell. I intended for him to be filthy and infected when he died.

I stood up, and put my stool back beneath the bar. I cleaned my hands as best I could with what I had there, which wasn't much; what was left would have to wait until I went into the back rooms. Gage was still crying, feebly tugging at the chains and ropes that held him. Pathetic.

"I'm thinking about killing you tomorrow," I said. His gag muffled the response, but he tried anyway. Probably telling me to go fuck myself, or some variant. Maybe he was begging for mercy. If he was, he deserved it even more than I thought. Images of myself crushing his skull flashed through my head. Just glimpses, but I wanted to make them real. I was going to make them real.

"Not yet, Gage. But soon," I said. I stood there, absently cleaning my hands in the small bucket of water behind the bar, until Gage finally collapsed into sleep.

It was dark. Night. I could hear things. But it was quieter than usual. None of the rambunctious carousing of the night before, or even the routine debauchery that made the park hum most nights. From the balcony, all I could see was Nuka-Town. With the power back on it was lit up like Diamond City, casting long shadows in the barren wastes beyond the walls. Most brilliant, second only to Fizztop itself, was the arcade, with its flashing and sparkling and buzzing signs.

There was someone standing outside it. He was a silhouette, with a shadow twice as tall as he slanting towards the Operator's den. And it looked like he was staring up at me. We were staring at each other. After a while, he went into the arcade and didn't come back out.

I stood at the balcony, fixated on where he'd been standing. It made me uneasy, made me feel cornered. Exposed. Like a fish in a bowl.

I lit a cigarette. I wasn't going to sleep. I knew that, thought I didn't know why. When my cigarette had burned to a stub, I lit another.

When the sun rose, I was still there. Leaning on the balcony, cigarette between my lips, surveying the Nuka-World that I had made mine.

\---------------------------------------------

A great clamor woke Jerry. He rose from his pallet in the back of the arcade, rubbing his eyes clear of sleep's fog. It didn't take more than a second before he was fully alert; life as a raider taught you that. He took his pistol from where it lay beside his raggedly pillow, holstering it without thinking.

He'd convinced Fritsch to give him the back office, for a moderate rent. There was a desk, which he didn't use, a few cabinets and crates, which he filled with guns and ammo, and his little pallet. It was bare of decoration, and hardly large enough for what little there was. But it had a door. That was more than most in Nuka-World could say.

When he flung the door open, Jordan was there waiting for him. As usual, he handed Jerry a lukewarm Nuka-Cola, Cherry this time, and waited for him to take a drink before starting.

"They're bringing the prisoners out. Lining them up in the fountain. No sign of the Overboss, but Mason and Mags are there," he said. Jerry started towards the exit. The arcade was empty, more so than it normally was this time of morning. Not even Fritsch was there as he normally was, tuning up the machines or trying to beat some ancient record.

"Tensions?" Jerry asked.

"Some, but the bosses are keeping everything under control. A couple idiots tried to start a brawl an hour or so ago, but it was put out."

"Killed?"

"No. Well, they were taken back to the dens. Couldn't say what happened after that," Jordan answered.

Outside, the crowd extended almost to the arcade. It was dense, with raiders rubbing shoulders and brushing elbows. The cacophony was surprisingly subdued, the thickness of anticipation drowning the hotness of shed blood. Jerry and Jordan pushed through as best they could, towards the center at the fountain. Jerry was quietly surprised at how many people moved aside when they saw him coming. How many gave way. Not even his own people entirely, but Operators and Pack too.

Word was getting out. Of who he was, of what he was doing. That was dangerous, but not entirely unexpected. He had a lot of people working for him, in all sections of the park. They drank, they shot chems, they fucked. They talked. But the number of those who recognized him, and respected him enough to let him pass, was startling. He'd be confronted by one of the bosses before long, if he was lucky.

At the center of the crowd, Mags and Mason were ordering the six prisoners, the six survivors of the previous day's clash, lined up, on their knees, in the big fountain basin. Jerry made it to the edge, with an unobstructed view of the lineup. Jordan didn't make it that far; he was distracted by an Operator he was apparently friendly with. So Jerry stood alone.

Mags and Mason were obviously uneasy. They kept whispering to each other, with sidelong glances to the Grill at the top of the mountain. To the Overboss.

The prisoners, if they could be called that accurately, were obviously terrified. They did not glance to the mountaintop, though, but to their own bosses. They feared the infamously savage Mason, the cold sociopath Mags, more than they did the Overboss. To them, she was a mythological figure. The gods of Olympus were wrathful, but their vengeance came in lightning bolts and floods. The Overboss was an overarching abstract, a theme of death rather than a threat of pain. And raiders didn't appreciate abstracts. Just as they knew no greater ambition than that of immediate gratification, they knew no greater fear than that of immediate pain. Mason and Mags were that threat of pain, and so the six did not watch the mountaintop.

Jerry did. And so when the elevator started to fall, he was the first to notice. Quickly, though, a rolling wave passed through the crowd, silencing it, as all eyes turned towards her.

The elevator hit the ground.

The Overboss stepped out, dragging Gage behind her. He was naked, although it took Jerry a moment to realize it, as dense as the filth that clung to him was. He scampered on his hands and knees, barely able to keep pace. She handed him off to an Operator, and ordered him placed at the end of the lineup.

So today was the day Gage died.

The Overboss had two things in her hands. In the left, she held a ripper. The little chainsaw was heavily modified, but Jerry couldn't tell specifically how. In the right, she had a small laser pistol. It looked like it had been stripped down, and the focus seemed to have been removed. A laser like that was good for burning, but not killing.

"Six of you are traitors," the Overboss said. Her voice was quiet, soft, but it didn't carry far. Those that could hear her murmured the words to those who could not.

"There aren't many rules, but there are some. And they're simple fucking rules. So when you break the rules, I think you're either stupid or traitorous. Either way, I won't have it. I won't."

She nodded to Mason. He grabbed the first prisoner, dragged the man to his feet whimpering. He was watching the Overboss. They all were now.

"But I've decided to go easy on you. All of you."

Mason extended the prisoner's right hand. The Overboss holstered the laser, and held on to his hand, pulling the arm taut.

"So, here we go. You lose a hand."

With the ripper, she cut off his arm at the elbow. Blood splashed into the water, and those at the farthest edges of the crowd could hear him scream.

The next prisoner was a woman. Mason extended her left hand for the Overboss to take.

"You too."

Off at the elbow.

The next prisoner was sobbing. Mason picked him up, threw him on his back, and extended his right foot. The man struggled, but Mason held him down. The Overboss took his foot, held the leg taut. The ripper's scream carried farther than her voice, carried over the screams of pain and the howls of terror. That steady squeal of the chain.

"You lose a foot."

She cut through his leg at the knee. The kneecap resisted, but when she pushed harder, it splintered and shattered. The rest of the bone went easy.

The next prisoner tried to run. Mags caught her, threw her down for Mason to pin and hold.

"And you."

She cut this one just above the knee. The ripper slid through her leg like it was water.

Blood spread in the basin's water. Even where Jerry stood, the water was red. The first one, and maybe the second, were likely to die from blood loss.

The fifth prisoner stared in incomprehension when the Overboss slung the ripper on her belt, and took the laser pistol in her hand. Mason grabbed her by the head, forcing her to stare at the Overboss.

"You lose your eyes."

The woman started screaming even before the thin red laser slashed across her eyes. After, she slumped into unconsciousness.

The final prisoner didn't know what to do. He didn't know what mutilation to fear, so he feared them all. Mason didn't touch this one.

The Overboss put the laser away, and did not draw the ripper. Jerry could see hope flash in man's eyes. She grabbed him by his head, with both hands.

"You die."

She slammed her knee into his face. Again and again, smashing it to a pulp, until his skull collapsed and he died. The body fell limply into the water.

All that remained then was Gage.

He looked at her, his head swaying lightly. He looked dazed, vaguely confused. No defiance, no hate, not even fear. Gage was broken inside, and understanding the imminence of his death was beyond him now. Jerry couldn't see the Overboss's face.

The agonized moaning of the four prisoners still able to moan was the only sound in Nuka-Town.

"I don't know what to do with you, Gage. I don't know what death to give you," she said. She didn't say it to the crowd, she said it to Gage. Even those closest strained to hear.

She pulled the ripper from her belt, and pulled the handle. It buzzed to life.

"So I'm just going to kill you."

She buried it in his head, and it was over. For now.


	9. Chapter 9

Jerry watched the door.

“How long ago was this?”

“Bim got picked up an hour ago. He came and found me as soon as they let him go,” Jordan said. Jerry took a deep breath, steadied himself. He sat behind a heavy metal desk, the door opened outwards, he had people outside the arcade, Jordan had his gun out; he was as safe as he could make himself without being actively hostile.

“He says they wanted to know about you,” Jordan continued. “About our operation. Numbers, locations, that kind of thing.”

“Who was it?”

“All three,” Jordan said after a moment’s pause. Jerry didn’t allow himself to react.

“All three?”

“Yeah. Mags, Mason, and the Overboss. Bim’s an idiot, but he’s not a liar. He says Mags did all the talking.”

Jerry didn’t think he was in much danger. If they wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t have let his man go. And Mags was the coolest head of the bunch; they’d choose her if they wanted to get information, wanted to probe but not startle.

“What did he tell them?”

“Everything he knows, which isn’t much. They couldn’t have picked someone worse than Bim to pump for info. When he’s not full of Jet, he keeps to himself. When he is, he’s too busy fucking or fighting to take notes.”

Jerry was starting to relax. They weren’t coming to kill him. They wanted to talk.

“And when they let him go?”

“He came right to me.”

“Did he have a message or instructions?”

“If he did, he didn’t tell me.”

“Would he tell you?”

“I don’t know. I think so. But I can’t say for sure.”

The muffled sound of the arcade filled the silence. Fritsch was out there, banging on some broken ticket dispenser, and there were a few raiders having a go at the Whack-a-Commie. There was a heated argument going on over the Atomic Rollers, which sounded like it might come to blows, and a group were exchanging tickets for drugs and ammo.

They were all Jerry’s people, of course, armed and ready for the occasion. He was loyal, absolutely, but he had no intentions of dying to prove it.

A knock at the door.

“Come in,” Jerry said. Calmly. He felt calm, surprisingly. All the signs indicated they wanted to talk, not fight.

It was one of his people. She had been posted outside the Nuka-Cade, with instructions to warn him if she saw one of the bosses coming.

“She’s here,” the girl said breathily. She was flushed, obviously more nervous than Jerry was. Jordan, too, looked tense, now that the moment had come at last.

Over the girl’s shoulder, Jerry saw the Overboss. Their eyes met, locked for a single second. Jerry felt an involuntary shiver run the length of his spine, but he managed to show nothing. To reveal nothing. His gaze was as empty as hers.

The girl, once she realized who was behind her, ducked and ran out. Jordan was obviously inclined to do the same, but the Overboss filled the doorway before he had the chance. He resigned to leaning against a cabinet, failing to look suave with his gun held casually. Jerry didn’t stand, and the Overboss didn’t seem to care.

She was alone. That surprised him, but he understood. No matter what her purpose was, she could handle it herself. If she wanted to talk, she could talk. If she wanted to kill, she could kill them all without breaking a sweat. Having anyone else with her would dilute the effect.

She stepped in, and closed the door behind her. There was a pistol, a .44 revolver, at her hip, but Jerry couldn’t see any other weapons. She wouldn’t need any other weapons.

The Overboss had the trappings of a beautiful woman. It was not an exquisitely attractive body, but it was noticeably attractive. If it belonged to any other woman, she’d be beautiful. But the Overboss was not beautiful. There was an overwhelming aura of apathetic malevolence about her, the sense that she would unthinkingly murder someone because it was easier, less taxing, than letting them live. Because she was tired and they were tiring. There was no beauty in that.

But there was power. Jerry had traveled, more than most people, and he had seen many things. But he had never seen a person, or an animal, or a monstrous beast that seemed so absolutely, so unrelentingly _powerful_ than the woman standing in front of him. He’d rather take his chances fighting a Deathclaw.

That had an undeniably attractive quality. _Stories_ of it had drawn him across the entire Commonwealth, had convinced him to join the Nuka-World raiders. He’d abandoned everything he had for it. Now, he was confronted with it, in the flesh, and he knew it was all worth it. There was no law or order in the wasteland. Only strength. Jerry had lived his life serving strength. And he realized then, fully and truly, that to serve the Overboss of Nuka-World was to serve the strongest.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?” She asked. He felt a surge of adoration. And he smiled. This was what he had been waiting for.

“I hear you lost one of the bosses,” he said. “I happen to be a qualified replacement.”

She stared at him, unmoving. He stared back, unflinching.

“I’ve managed to bring together a number of people, loyal to you and you alone,” he continued. “Not the Operators, not the Pack. You.”

“Not you?”

“In theory, no. In practice, yes. A fine yet substantial distinction. You lead,” he answered. “I manage.”

She did not respond. The pause was not different than any other, but it felt contemplative.

“There aren’t many of us. We would become an elite cadre, your own personal gang for your own personal uses. Outside Nuka-World we could represent you specifically, not the organization at large,” he said. When she did not respond, he continued.

“And with Porter Gage dead, you need someone that can bridge the gap between the Operators and the Pack. A liaison to facilitate cooperation. I can do it on the macro, between leaderships. I have people that can do it at every other scale. You’ll need that, once we enter the Commonwealth. People to ensure all our operations correlate effectively to each other.”

“That’s enough,” the Overboss said. “I think you’re right. But I also think you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Maybe you’re not. There’s only one way to find out. You want to be the third boss? Fine. Kiddie Kingdom is yours. Betray me, I’ll kill you. Be at the Grille tomorrow by noon.”

She left without another word.

Jerry breathed.

* * *

 

Most raiders already knew about the third gang, so few were surprised when it was legitimized, and fewer still when they moved into Kiddie Kingdom. Those that didn’t know quickly learned. The new gang was small, its selection process exclusive, and it pledged loyalty to the Overboss directly. When the word got out, many tried to defect to it, but they were all turned away. Only those new to Nuka-World were eligible for recruitment, they were told. Before long, this new gang was given a name: the Bossmen.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“There’s no doubt that she left the valley. The monorail was secured the entire time, so she didn’t leave that way,” Mags said.

“How, exactly, do we know she’s not still here?” Jerry asked. The other two bosses were still getting used to his presence, but they were willing to adjust. It was to their credit, the way they handled the transition. He’d expected hostility, even of the passive variety, but he had encountered none. Evidently, Mags and Mason found him much easier to deal with than the dear departed Nisha.

The Overboss’s feelings towards the matter were less clear. During these meetings, she spoke very little. In fact, she rarely spoke at all until she had made a decision, leaving the bosses to debate and discuss among themselves. It was an effective technique, Jerry thought.

“There’s nowhere for her to hide. Our people patrol the valley constantly,” Mason answered gruffly, as was his manner.

“Bradberton?”

“Overrun with ghouls,” Mags said. “And we have agents keeping an eye on the Hubologists. The Red Rocket station is occupied, the old mansion is a death trap, and the junkyard is crawling with robots. Everywhere else is patrolled.”

“Alright. So, she isn’t in the valley,” Jerry conceded. “That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“No, it doesn’t. There are three ways out of Nuka-World,” Mags said. She unrolled a map across the pool table, depicting the entire Nuka-World valley, and gestured towards the southern end.

“The monorail leads to the Commonwealth. We know she didn’t leave that way.”

She gestured towards the northern end.

“There’s a pass through the mountains up here. It empties out about fifty miles away, but there’s nothing out there. No food, no water, no supplies. If she went that way, she’s probably already dead.”

Then, to the eastern edge of the valley.

“The Gunners have been getting into the valley through some path out here. We don’t know where it is, but it’s possible Nisha does. If I had to put money down, that’d be the way I’d guess,” she finished.

“I know the way,” the Overboss said quietly. “It puts out near the monorail terminal in the Commonwealth.”

“So she went to the Commonwealth. It’s been almost a week. She could be anywhere by now,” Mason interjected. Mags nodded, and placed another map on top of the first. This one was of the Commonwealth. It had notations covering it, indicating various territories held by various factions, and good locations for outposts. The Overboss’s handiwork, Jerry would guess.

“That’s a good point. All that remains, then, is to figure out where in the Commonwealth she’d go,” she said.

“That’s a tall order, without any leads,” Mason said. Mags nodded, and leaned back in her chair.

“She couldn’t have taken more than a dozen Disciples with her,” she said after a while. “And there’s no evidence that they stockpiled supplies before their attack. So, once they got to wherever they were going, they’d need food and water.”

“There’s none of that to be had in the south,” Mason said. “Not for that many.”

“If I were her, I’d want to get as far away from here as possible. She has to know we’re looking for her,” Jerry said. Mags agreed.

“But I don’t think the Disciples would turn farmer. They’d need to stick close to a community, a settlement of some kind,” he continued.

“I don’t know. If they went into Boston, near Diamond City or Bunker Hill, they could feed off trade routes. The Disciples are more inclined to raid supply trains than intimidate settlements,” Mason said.

“Especially if they’re looking to stay hidden,” Mags added.

“That makes sense,” Jerry agreed. “So, where in Boston could they go?”

“Half of it is Super Mutant territory, the other half belongs to raiders. With a sprinkling of ghouls here and there,” Mason said. Mags indicated a spot on the map, close to the symbol marking Goodneighbor.

“The city’s densest around here. Goodneighbor would be willing to sell them guns and ammo, and Bunker Hill’s lines to Diamond City go that way,” she explained. “They’d be well put up there. There are plenty of buildings to clear, places they could hide out in. If I were Nisha, I’d put up in the old State House.”

“Last time I was there, mutants controlled it,” Jerry said. Mags shrugged.

“I think the Disciples could handle a few mutants,” Mason said.

“It has a reputation in the area; people avoid it. And it’s already decorated the way they like,” Mags said wryly. Mason grunted in amusement.

“And if they’re not there?” Jerry asked.

“No matter where they are, they’re going to leave a footprint. There will be people who know they’re there, even if they don’t know who they are specifically. Once we have a general idea, we can find them,” Mags answered.

“In any event,” Jerry said. “We should begin our push into the Commonwealth immediately. Once we have a foothold, we can start looking for Nisha and the Disciples.”

“I agree,” Mason said. “No matter what we want to do about her, we’ll need people and supplies in the Commonwealth. That means establishing an outpost.”

“No,” the Overboss interrupted. “I want the search to begin immediately. Send people to the State House, and send some people to the major settlements. Tell them to ask questions, see what there is to see. I want information. We can begin our invasion at the same time, but I want to be on top of the Disciple situation.”

That was that.

“The Operators can handle it. I have people that can blend in to settlements, and people that can scope out the State House,” Mags said. No objections were forthcoming. “Alright; I’ll give the orders.”

“With that settled, we should discuss our first move in the Commonwealth,” Jerry said.

“Obviously, we need to secure the Commonwealth monorail terminal. We can’t do anything before that’s in our hands,” Mags said. “The Gunners have held it for months-”

“They don’t,” the Overboss said. “Not anymore.”

“I see,” Mags continued, after a pause. “Well, then, the only task is to move in.”

“We should all go. The four of us, in the first wave,” Jerry said. It earned him a quizzical look from the other two bosses.

“Why?” Mags asked.

“It sends a message,” he explained. Mason seemed to understand, then. He would. “Tells everyone that this is just the first step on a longer path. The first move in a larger game. It tells them that things are about to start happening.”

“Yes,” the Overboss said. A hint of a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Things are about to start happening.”

* * *

 

I stepped onto the monorail. A crowd had developed at the terminal, as we’d expected, and they were watching us. With excitement, mostly. But also confusion, among those too small minded to grasp what was going on.

Mags, Mason, and Jerry got on after me. Each brought two people with them, and they got on. The ten of us were a motley crew, but we were the vanguard. The “first wave”, as Jerry had put it.

Mags and Mason both carried rifles, as did their people. Jerry didn’t seem to have any weapons beyond a 10mm at his hip; his people had assault rifles. I had my .44 and my knife. Whatever was on the other side of the monorail, Gunners or mutants or abominations, we’d fuck ‘em.

Jerry threw a gesture to the monorail operator, and he threw a switch. The door closed, the train jerked into motion. We were away.

I lit a cigarette. The train accelerated slowly, allowing us time to admire the vista. My companions did. I didn’t.

By the time we reached the terminal, my cigarette had burned down. I held it in my mouth until the monorail had stopped completely and the door had opened.

I stepped out first, tossing the butt down and crushing it under my heel. Everyone else filed out around me, spreading out in every direction as they did.

The terminal was empty. It was exactly as I had left it, down to the festering corpse leaning against a trash can. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows across the dead man’s face. I couldn’t remember his name; I didn’t care to.

“It’s empty,” Mags said, after they’d searched it thoroughly.

“Go outside. I’ll follow,” I said. They obeyed, except for Jerry. He stayed behind, watching me as I approached the dead man.

I’d shot him in the face. Not much of his head remained attached to his neck, and what did was discolored and rotted. An eyeball had landed a foot away, in a pool of viscera, intact. I prodded it with my foot, and it collapsed into mush under the slight pressure. His skin had turned gray, his veins black. I couldn’t smell him, but I knew the stench was powerful.

“I think his name was Harvey,” Jerry said softly. “I didn’t know him. But I heard about him.”

“I told you to go outside,” I said. I didn’t look up, though. Some kind of animal had dug at his stomach, exposing the innards. They, too, were discolored, with the consistency of putrid paste.

“You killed him?”

I didn’t answer. I don’t know why. But I couldn’t look away from the dead man. _Harvey_. _His name was Harvey_.

“I heard about it, of course. The guys that were there are always eager to talk about it. How you cut through the Gauntlet, gunned down dozens of raiders, and killed the old Overboss with a grenade. How you were about to kill Porter Gage and the bosses before he convinced you to take over. I’ve heard the story a hundred times, at least. And it started here, didn’t it?”

_No._

“Yeah. It did.”

_No, it didn’t._

“This is where it started.”

_It started at the Vault_.

“I killed him. I had to.”

_I wanted to_.

Mags came down the steps, a smile on her face.

“We’re clear, Boss. Should I call down and have them start sending people over?”

“Do it,” I answered. I watched her, out of the corner of my eye, go into the office, and I heard her talk into the intercom to her brother back at Nuka-World.

Jerry was still watching me. I don’t think he’d moved; neither had I.

“You were telling the truth, weren’t you?” I asked him. He nodded.

I believed him.

Mason came down after a moment. Mags came back in, just as the monorail squealed into motion towards Nuka-World.

The four of us stood there, together.

“I had an idea,” Jerry said. “Mags, Mason: why don’t you stay here? In the Commonwealth? I can handle everyday management at Nuka-World, and you’re more useful out here than back there.”

They considered it. I didn’t.

“I could hold the fort here,” Mags said. “Manage the flow of supplies between Nuka-World and our outposts. This could be our headquarters, the junction where everything is handled.”

“And I could go to the outposts. Make sure they get set up right, and handled properly,” Mason said. “I’d be most effective out there, on the front lines.”

“And the Overboss can move between all three, wherever she’s needed,” Jerry said. I was barely listening, but I nodded anyway. I was still watching the dead man.

“Mason and I would need representatives at Nuka-World,” Mags said.

“Right. We’d all exchange lieutenants, representatives to speak for us. I’d send someone with each of you, you’d both send someone to me and to each other,” Jerry said. Mags nodded her agreement.

“It makes sense to me,” she said.

“And me,” Mason agreed.

“Boss?” Jerry asked.

“Alright,” I said.

It was settled.

* * *

 

Jerry sent Jordan to Mags and a trusted advisor, Ward, to Mason. Mags left Lizzie Wyath with Jerry and set her brother with Mason. Mason sent Jerry a man named Cal, and Mags a woman named Riley.

Jerry returned to Nuka-World, to finish establishing himself at Kiddie Kingdom and begin management of the park at large. Mags remained at the Terminal, overseeing the establishment of a base there and the movement of people and supplies from Nuka-World. Mason, with Ward and William, took a dozen raiders, of all gangs, to the settlement at Sunshine Tidings Co-Op to form an outpost.

The Overboss, uncertain about where she was needed, returned with Jerry to Nuka-World.

The invasion of the Commonwealth had begun.


	11. Chapter 11

William crouched down low next to Mason.

The Pack's Alpha lay on a small hill, his head just sticking up above the peak, with a pair of binoculars. From almost a quarter mile away, he was watching Sunshine Tidings Co-Op. It wasn't a large settlement, no more than a cluster of houses, a barn or two, and a small grain silo. And, from what they'd managed to gather, it has inhabited by a handful of idle settlers with a Mister Handy. In the three days Mason and his people had been watching, they had yet to see any of them tend their crops.

"Ward's count is the same. Twelve settlers, one robot," William reported. Ward, the Bossman Jerry had sent to represent him to Mason, was on the other side of the settlement, somewhat closer than Mason. Their band of raiders made camp nearby in a dilapidated church.

"Did he see any with weapons?" Mason asked. His voice was a low grumble, barely audible; his mouth barely moved to say it. The Alpha was a massive figure, even laid flat against the ground, but he was surprisingly stealthy.

"Just one. Ward said he didn't seem like the rest," William answered. Mason growled something that sounded like agreement. It was a guttural sound, primal. Powerful. William shifted to relieve a certain pressure he suddenly felt.

"I know the one. Walks like a soldier. A mercenary, maybe," Mason said after a moment. That made sense with what Ward had said. And the settlers at Sunshine Tidings certainly had use of a mercenary; half of them looked perpetually stoned, the other half looked like they hadn't eaten in a month. A pack of mole rats would slaughter them, if it weren't for the Mister Handy. Even it wouldn't be much help against anything more substantial.

A mercenary, then. Not very worrisome. There were fifteen of them, one of him. Unlike the rest of them, he'd die fighting, but he'd die nonetheless.

"Alright," Mason said. "We'll move. Go get Ward and meet me at the church."

"Fine," William agreed, and started out on the long trek around the settlement.

It was a scenic walk, but William didn't notice. He went as quickly through it as he dared, keeping to shadows cast by the setting sun. It was sparsely wooded, but there were pivots and dips in the ground enough to keep him hidden. Of course, no one from the settlement was liable to be watching, but it paid to be cautious. William understood that, better than most.

When he finally reached the mound of rubble fallen from the overpass that Ward hid behind, the sun was flirting with the horizon. Ward was where William had left him, laying casually against a block, watching the settlement through his binoculars.

Ward was tall, taller than William, and built from solid muscle. He was handsome, after a fashion, but nothing particularly special. A few of his teeth were missing, and a thick scar ruined one eye. William knew little about the man, but he had the look and feel of a lifetime raider, although he was younger than he seemed at first glance. Probably younger than William, in fact, but not by much. But life as a raider aged a man, faster than any other, and Ward was probably born as one.

"Mason is ready to move," William said. Ward nodded and stood.

"About time," he said gruffly. William said nothing.

"We're going to the church, I assume," Ward said.

"That's right," he responded. Ward gestured in that direction broadly, and started walking.

"Then what the fuck are we standing around here for?"

William followed after, a few paces behind.

The walk to the church was shorter, but not by much. The sun was halfway past the horizon by the time they got there, and Mason had already assembled the men outside.

"Good," he said when he saw the two approaching. "We can get started."

"Kill 'em all?" An Operator asked.

"I don't think so," Mason responded. There was a rumble of dissatisfaction, but nothing more.

"We're going to try and take prisoners," he continued. Ward took a spot with the men, but William flanked Mason. Ward and he were in positions of command, and they needed to act it. They were tertiary positions, at best, but that didn't change the facts.

"Why?" Someone asked. William thought it was another Operator, but he wasn't sure. Mason growled before answering.

"Because that's what I said we're going to do," he answered. His tone silenced any further questioning.

"They aren't armed, they don't have defenses. So we won't worry about a big plan. Just storm the settlement, take them down. If anybody shoots, shoot back. But if they don't, I want them alive. Let's go."

It was night when they got there. They spread out, splitting automatically into pairs, and headed towards buildings. William and a Pack entered a barn, rifles ready. There were three settlers inside, a man and two women, sleeping together on a pallet. William tapped the Pack on the shoulder, indicated he should stay there and watch them. The man did what he was told, taking a position at the door silently. William went back out.

A few others were exiting buildings, either in pairs, meaning no one was inside, or alone, meaning they'd found someone. After a few minutes, the only building remaining was the central barn.

William and Mason took that one. They flanked the door, rifles held down but ready to snap up at a moment's notice. Mason nodded to him, and jerked his head towards the entrance. William threw his gun up and sidestepped into the building.

The Mister Handy was in there, settled on the ground and deactivated. In a corner, a woman. He didn't see anyone else. Mason followed after him, silently moving towards a ladder leading up into a loft. William didn't follow, but held his gun trained on the Mister Handy. If that thing woke up and started attacking, it'd be the most dangerous thing there.

Mason started climbing the ladder. The muted creak of the wooden rungs was the only sound, a soft whine that sounded like thunder in the silence.

Then, someone started shooting.

Mason swore and rushed up the ladder just as the Mister Handy woke up. One of its eyes swiveled, wild, until it saw William. The eye focused on him, and the robot burst into life. The rocket fired, raising it to William's height, and the arms unfolded to reveal the standard pincer, flamethrower, and saw.

But it didn't attack. It just hovered there, looking at him.

"Hey, man," it said. William stared, caught between the instinct to shoot and bewilderment.

"What?" He stammered.

"What. Groovy," it responded, and then flew past him towards the door.

William stared after it, transfixed, until he heard the sounds scuffling in the loft. He rushed towards the ladder, and the grunts and thuds of a fistfight.

Mason had the mercenary on the ground, his arm encircling the man's throat, choking him. The mercenary hit Mason on the back of the head repeatedly, with as much force as the poor leverage allowed.

William hit the man in the face with the stock of his gun. He recoiled, stunned, and faded into unconsciousness.

Mason let his head fall to the ground, and stood. It was dark, but William could still see a trickle of blood running down the Alpha's mouth, and his left eye was darker than his right. It must have been a tough fight, however brief, for him to have even that much.

They stood there, listening for the sounds of further conflict. There were a few shouts, a few screams, but no more gunshots. Then, quiet.

William, blood pumping hot through his body, mindlessly used his thumb to brush away the blood from Mason's lip. The Alpha caught his hand, clearly surprised, and peered at him through the dark. They held that way for a minute, neither speaking. Mason's grip was tight around his wrist, the hand rough and warm. William wanted it.

Mason let go. A woman was screaming, hoarse shrieks that meant only one thing. The Pack's Alpha met William's eyes one more time, suspicious and wary, before descending the ladder and heading towards the sound.

The Operator stood there for a minute longer, clutching his wrist where Mason had grabbed him. The flesh was tender, and he knew it was red. Watching the other man exit the barn, he let his heartrate fall, let himself cool off. When he had, he followed after.

Outside, a ring had formed around the screaming woman. A few raiders were keeping all the other settlers held at gunpoint, stealing glances at the commotion as they did. William sent one back into the barn to fetch the mercenary.

It was Ward. He'd stripped a woman, a girl really, and had her on the ground. The other men watched eagerly, no doubt eager for their turn once he was finished.

Mason stood there, contemplative. Ward didn't notice him, or didn't care. He unbuckled his pants, dropped them to reveal himself already prepared. Pushing the girl onto her stomach, pinning her arms against her back with one hand and holding her hair with the other, he forced himself into her.

"Keep her alive," Mason said. Ward flashed a grin at him, thrusting roughly. Setting a savage pace, Ward took her.

William approached Mason.

"We should start questioning them right away," he whispered. He wasn't sure why he whispered, but it seemed appropriate. Not to disturb the men from their entertainment.

Mason glanced at him, nodded.

"Handle it," the Alpha said. William didn't respond, but obeyed.

The mercenary was starting to wake up, but he wasn't worth questioning yet. William selected one of the settlers at random, a boy of about sixteen, and ordered him taken into the barn. A Bossman did it, and William followed.

Ward's girl had stopped screaming, her voice ran ragged into low sobs. Not enough to drown out the sound of flesh against flesh, or Ward's satisfied moans. One of the other settlers was crying. A couple didn't seem to know what was going on; one was smiling.

The Bossman threw the boy to the ground, and left the barn at a nod from William. William stood there, watching the boy scramble to his feet. He was lean, would have been lanky if he'd been tall enough. Emaciated was more accurate.

"What's your name?" William asked. The boy's eyes kept shifting between William and the door, beyond the door to Ward's girl. They were close in age, although the girl looked a few years older. Maybe they were lovers, or relations, or both. No, he didn't seem quite agitated enough for either. A friend, then.

"Ben," the boy answered. His voice was still high, a little shrill. He didn't seem young enough for that, but it came to some later than others. William moved closer, slowly and casually. The boy didn't retreat, didn't seem sure whether he should or not.

"Ben. I'm going to ask you some questions, Ben. Will you answer my questions?"

"I- I guess. What kind of questions?"

"Simple questions. About this place, about the people here. About other settlements nearby," William said. He kept his voice low, even, and calm. Soothing. The boy relaxed, slightly, and his gaze held on William for longer stretches.

"Okay," he said. William smiled.

"Okay. When did you first come here?"

"A while ago," the boy answered. William chuckled lightly. The boy relaxed further.

"I'm sure. How long ago is a while ago?"

"I'm not sure. About a year, maybe? We don't really keep track," he said.

"Who did you come here with?"

"A friend. Some friends. We heard about it, and thought it'd be safe. Safer."

"Safer than where? Where did you come from?"

"Blue Beach," the boy responded. "We always called it that."

He gestured vaguely northeast. "It's that way. I think."

"And the others? What about them?"

"Well, Molly and Jim and Tabitha were already here. So was the Professor," the boy said.

"The Professor?"

"Yeah," he said with a little laugh. "The Mister Handy. He's called Professor Goodfeels. I think he's from before."

"Alright, Ben. Who else?"

"Uh, everyone else came later."

"How much later?"

"A few weeks, I guess. Maybe a few months. I don't really remember," the boy answered. William stepped a little closer. A little too close, so he could feel the boy's breath on his neck. But the boy didn't retreat. He didn't seem to notice.

Outside, voices rose.

"Lift her up!" Someone said. It sounded like Mason.

"Hold her there, damnit. Alright… Alright. Move. That's it." That, too, was Mason.

"Fucking… Fuck, this cunt's tight," Ward said. It must have been Ward.

"With both of you in there, it's gotta be!" Someone joked; the others laughed. The girl was moaning, not the breathy moans of pleasure, but the harsh, whiny moans of pain.

William took a deep breath, snapping the boy's attention back to him. Something on William's face must have scared him, because he shrunk back. But he didn't step back.

"Alright, Ben. What about other settlements?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are there any in the area? Do you trade?"

"I mean, there's Abernathy Farm. Vern and Tabitha go up there to buy food sometimes," the boy responded.

"Anywhere else?"

"Um, I guess Tabitha goes down to this place every once in a while. Not very often, though. And I don't know where it is. She comes back with food, though."

"Does this place have a name?"

"I don't know. I think- I don't know. I'm sorry," he said. He sounded sorry, to his credit. Or maybe it was fear.

"Lay back, would ya?" Somebody outside demanded.

"What are you doing?"

"She's got another hole, don't she?" Laughter. "Lay back, and I can get at it."

This time the moan was more of a scream.

"Would somebody shut her up?" Ward.

"I'm not sticking mine in her mouth. I like my cock," somebody responded.

"Then knock her fucking teeth out first," Mason growled, obviously short of breath. There was subdued laughter. Some were bolder, louder. Not many.

William laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. Rubbed it with his thumb.

This time, the boy's attention was undivided.

"Ben."

He grabbed the boy's other shoulder, feeling the bones beneath.

"Y-yes? Do you have any more questions for me?"

"No, Ben. I think you've told me what I needed to know."

His breathing was growing shallow. He could hear them outside. Hear what they were doing.

"Are you going to let us go," the boy asked. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes.

William didn't answer.

Outside, the girl was weeping.

* * *

The mercenary was named MacCready. He was based out of Goodneighbor, hired by one of the more lucid Sunshine Tidings settlers to help build some defenses. And he wanted to live.

William stood next to Mason and Ward, considering MacCready. The mercenary was tied to a chair, in the middle of the big barn.

"We should just kill him. We killed all the others," Ward said impatiently.

"The others weren't skilled mercenaries," William responded. The others were piled outside, far enough from the settlement that they wouldn't stink, burning. They'd been kept alive long enough to corroborate the boy's information and clarify some details, and then killed.

"So? We don't need him," Ward said.

"That's not necessarily true," MacCready said suddenly, nervously. "I've got a lot of skills. Lots. I can do anything you want. And I'm cheap, too. Really cheap. Hell, I'll give you a discount. Because I'm also nice. And-"

"Shut up," Mason grumbled. The mercenary obliged.

"Fuck it," he said after a moment. "I don't know what to do with him. Let Mags figure it out."

He turned to William.

"Take him to your sister. She can handle him."

William nodded.

"I'll come back as soon as he's delivered," he said. Mason grunted.

"Get him there, come back. That's it."

William lifted the mercenary to his feet, and prodded him outside with a pistol.

A dark splotch on the grass marked where the girl had been killed. Another, much larger, marked where the rest had been rounded up and gunned down.

There was a third, in the back of the barn, where blood had dripped between the loft floorboards. It was surprisingly small, but, then again, the boy hadn't been very big to begin with.

* * *

"So, your sister?" MacCready asked cautiously. They sat around a small fire that William carefully stoked. He'd bound MacCready, but stupidly not gagged him.

"That's right," he responded gruffly. He wasn't interested in a conversation. But MacCready decided to be persistent, apparently.

"That guy Mason is the boss? Him and your sister?"

William shuffled through his pack for something to cook. He found some radstag meat.

"Yeah."

After planting a row of y-shaped sticks on either side of the fire, he laid straight sticks through them to form a grille. He let it heat up before laying the steak across it.

It was rudimentary, but it would stand.

"So, are they…? You know," MacCready asked. William glared at him.

"No." He said. It came out hotter and angrier than he'd intended. MacCready flinched, but then seemed curious.

"Okay. So, they're just the two biggest badasses in your operation, so they get to be in charge?"

The steak sizzled and dripped. Radstag was not very good tasting, but it would fill you up and keep you filled. That was worth a lot more than flavor.

"They aren't in charge. The Overboss is in charge," he answered.

"The Overboss. Right. Who's he?"

"She's the one in charge," he said. "The three bosses are under her."

"Three bosses? Mason, your sister, and who?"

William flipped the steak.

"Why do you care?"

"Well, I want to work for you guys, of course. I want to know who exactly I'm working for. Are you the third boss?"

"No," he answered. That, too, was laden with more emotion than he'd intended.

"Okay. So, there's the Overboss. She's top dog. And then there's Mason, your sister, and the third guy. Where do you fit in?"

"I'm Mags's second-in-command. We lead our gang, Mason leads his."

"And the third guy leads his. Right. Well, Mags leads _her_ gang, right? It's not _your_ gang. She's the boss."

William took a deep breath. MacCready watched him.

"She's the boss. But we work together," he answered. Calmly.

"Sure, sure. But she's the boss. Your boss. And she's got you working for Mason. While she's leading _her_ gang."

"What the fuck do you know about it?" William snapped. MacCready didn't flinch this time. If William had been paying attention, he'd have noticed it actually encouraged him.

"And this Mason guy. He's the boss of his own gang. Him and Mags are. But they don't have a thing going, I guess. Just… colleagues. Coworkers."

"That's what I said."

The steak was burning.

"Right. That's what you said. So, Mason? He's got a thing on the side, I bet. Seems hard to believe, though. That'd he'd ignore Mags like that. I mean, she's the top dog; she's the best. Why settle for second…?"

"She is _not_ the best," William barked.

The steak burst into flames.

William scrambled to get it off and put out. His arm knocked down the grill, sending the smoking sticks tumbling across the ground.

MacCready, hands still bound behind his back, grabbed one, thick leather gloves protecting his hands.

The mercenary lashed at him with it, narrowly missing with his first strike. That was all he got.

William punched him in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground. He stomped on MacCready's wrists, until his hands went flaccid and released the stick. For good measure, he kicked the mercenary in the side a few times.

As MacCready coughed and wheezed, William dragged him against a tree, and tied him up against it. Then he gagged him.

* * *

The Terminal was bustling. Raiders and slaves alike worked, building dorms and offices and warehouses and defenses. In a week, it had already been transformed from the hollow ruin it had been, into a small settlement. There were even slaves put to work cleaning the streets and walkways, removing the centuries' dirt and trash.

To MacCready, it was a thoroughly shocking sign of what he was dealing with. Not just another band of raiders, like Saugus or Corvega, but an _organization_. An army.

To William, it was a hopeful sign of how far they had come, and how far they had yet to go.

Mags had had her office built first, on top of one of the parking garages, overlooking the entire Terminal. Hers was the only completed structure made with metal; all the others were wood, although several new buildings were being built with metal.

William took MacCready there, holding the mercenary in front of him, with his pistol buried in the man's back.

Mags was there, sitting behind a large desk. Stacks of papers and holodisks covered most of the surface, far more than William had expected. She was writing, he couldn't tell what, but it seemed to be highly engrossing.

"Mags," he said gently. She looked up, saw him there, and blinked rapidly. She looked… frazzled.

"William. What are you doing here? This means the operation at Sunshine Tidings went well?" She looked at MacCready with a suspicious eye. "Who is this?"

"A mercenary we captured at Sunshine Tidings. It all went like we planned," he responded. She frowned.

"Why did you bring him here?"

"Mason wasn't sure what to do with him. He wanted you to decide," William answered. Mags leaned back in her chair, contemplating MacCready. The mercenary worked his jaw like he was trying to talk through the gag.

"Kill him or hire him, I suppose. I don't know. I'm much too busy to deal with it," Mags said after a minute. "Wick! Get in here!"

An Operator entered, Wick. He regarded the scene briefly before turning the Mags.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Take this mercenary back to Nuka-World. Give him to Jerry. Let him deal with it," she ordered. "Tell whoever's running the monorail to mark it down as a Special Delivery."

"I will," Wick said. He took his pistol out, stretching out his hand for MacCready's wrists. William cautiously handed the mercenary over.

"Be careful with that one. He's crafty," he warned. Wick nodded, and the two marched out.

"And remember to sign in with the time!" Mags called after them.

"Yes, ma'am!" Wick called back. Mags sighed heavily, rubbing at her eyes absently. William leaned against a wall, watching her.

"You look tired," he said. She paused rubbing her eyes to glare at him.

"When we started this, I don't know what I was expecting. But it was _not_ this," she said, gesturing towards the stacks of paper.

"I have to keep track of everything that goes over the monorail, and what happens to it once it gets here. Every cap, every screw, every plank of wood. When it's loaded in Nuka-World, when it's unloaded here, and what is done with it. Who did the loading? Who took possession of it? Everything is accounted for," she said wearily.

"Sounds like a lot of work," he said.

"You have no idea how hard it is to get raiders to fill out paperwork. Most of them aren't even literate. It's a nightmare; I've thought about putting together _classes_ for fuck's sake."

"Not what you had in mind when we left Diamond City?"

She glared at him again. He grinned mischievously.

"But it has to be done. We'd lose half of our supplies if it wasn't, and the other half would get hilariously misused. It's necessary, but not glamorous. Here's an example," she said. She took a paper from one of the stacks and handed it to him. He looked it over.

"It's a requisition form. They need 12.7mm back at Nuka-World, because I had too much sent over here. So one of Jerry's people filled out this form, specifying how much they have and how much they need. To the bullet. It also says who filled it out and when they did it. So what I need to do, is cross-reference that with my records, to see how much 12.7mm we actually have, how much we use, how much we need, and how much they originally sent us, and then either approve or reject the requisition. But doing that requires actually _knowing_ that information, which means taking records in the first place. Which we haven't ever done on this scale. It _also_ requires-"

"Mags," William interrupted. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. He handed the form back, and she replaced it in its stack.

"I apologize. I don't think I've ever been more tired in my life," she said. He believed it.

"But I assume you have to get back to Sunshine Tidings," she continued. "There ought to be an empty bunk somewhere. If not, you can take the monorail back to Nuka-World tonight, and come back in the morning. We don't run it for passengers anymore outside specific times, except for special cases."

"I'm not a special case?" He asked wryly.

"No," she answered. She opened a drawer in her desk, and withdrew two papers to hand to him.

"What are these?"

"One is a requisition for supplies. Food and water, bullets if you need them, for the trip back. Get that in to Sidney downstairs as soon as possible. He'll handle it. The other is in case you do take the monorail. You'll fill it out with the time you're riding, the purpose of your trip, and your name, and file it at the time of boarding. They have them down there, but I might as well give it to you now. You'll fill out another when you come back."

"Where do you get all these forms?" He asked.

"Somebody found a printing press in a closed section of the park about a week ago. Out by Dry Rock. Couldn't get in without the power turned on, so nobody had touched it in decades. We got it up and running," she answered. "But most of it is done by hand. I've got about twenty slaves working day and night."

"Where did you find the paper and ink?"

"All around you, brother. Tickets, fliers, magazines, books. We recycle them. The machinery isn't complicated; we have several in operation."

"It's incredible, Mags," he said, honestly. She shook her head.

"No, it isn't. Not yet. Eventually, though, the Terminal will be the central hub for our entire operation. From Nuka-World to the farthest outposts, everything will be controlled and monitored here. Under my control. Then, it will become something to behold."

She took a deep breath, and continued writing on the paper she'd been working on. It was a dismissal, he knew. As he was walking out, though, she stopped him.

"This is where the power is, William. That's the most important lesson I've ever learned. _This_ is where the power is."

He nodded, and left.

She continued working, quietly and subtly, at building an empire.

* * *

Jerry took an office in King Cola's Castle.

Calvin and Lizzie Wyath, his two lieutenants courtesy of Mason and Mags, were given offices adjacent to his. Lizzie preferred to stay in her laboratory in the Parlor, but Calvin regularly occupied his. Jerry had contemplated converting one of the rooms in the Castle to a lab for Lizzie, to make sure she was always near him and available, but he'd decided against it. It was best to just leave her be.

Using Calvin and Lizzie, or Lizzie's name, Jerry was busily consolidating control of Nuka-World's management, moving most of the three gangs' leadership structure to the Castle. After only a week, the Castle had already become the center of Nuka-World, supplanting Nuka-Town and Fizztop.

The Overboss herself requested a room there. She was, of course, given the most grandiose room for an office, a floor above Jerry's. She had done little while she was there, mostly observing Jerry at work. It was boring work, creating an administration from the ground up, but she seemed engrossed by it. Every once in a while, she'd offer some suggestion or insight. Every time, it was exactly what Jerry needed to do. Her expertise surprised him, but he very quickly learned to accept it, wherever it came from.

Calvin was an interesting case. He had a thin face, but disproportionately large ears, and large dark eyes that paired very well with his messy black hair. Jerry found him very attractive. And he had a keen intelligence, although he hid it well. He was not what Jerry had expected from Mason. Far from it. But he had yet to decide whether it was a welcome deviation from expectations.

He was, however, indispensable to Jerry's work. The Pack was the most difficult of the gangs to manage, especially for Jerry. They resisted his attempts at bureaucratization, resisted his attempts to organize and monitor their activities. But they would listen to Calvin. Perhaps it was the simple fact he had been left behind by Mason to lead them, or perhaps it was some quality of charisma that Jerry couldn't see. Regardless, Calvin was his only method of handling the Pack, and was therefore an integral part of Jerry's work.

He was with the Overboss, going over records of their 12.7mm stockpile, when Wick arrived with MacCready. The Operator led the mercenary into his office, hands bound and a pistol held against his back.

"Ma'am, sir," Wick said, asking for an invitation to speak.

"Go ahead," Jerry said.

"Mason captured this mercenary while taking Sunshine Tidings Co-Op. He and Mags have deferred his handling to you," Wick explained. Jerry leaned back in his chair, contemplative. MacCready looked ragged, no doubt due to being hauled from Sunshine Tidings to Nuka-World without regard for his safety or well-being. But he also looked canny, his eyes darting between Jerry and the Overboss, obviously trying to discern which was the more dangerous. After a minute, it seemed he decided on Jerry. Unwise.

"I see. Thank you. Please ungag him, and then you can report back to Mags. Tell her it'll be handled," Jerry said. Wick obeyed, taking the rag from MacCready's mouth, and then leaving without another word.

MacCready stood there, saying nothing.

"You're name?" Jerry asked.

"MacCready. Robert Joseph MacCready," he said. Jerry nodded.

"You're a mercenary. I assume you want to work for us, as opposed to dying?"

"That'd be nice, yeah."

"I see," Jerry said. MacCready wasn't sweating, and seemed to be staying admirably calm. The Overboss was staring at him, her face, as usual, betraying nothing.

"Boss?" He asked her.

"Kill him," she said immediately. With similar speed, MacCready realized he should refocus his attention from Jerry to her.

Jerry nodded.

"Yes. That's what I would say. But, before that, I'd like to try something," he said. She glanced at him, then nodded.

He pressed a finger to the intercom on his desk. It was tied into four different receivers; one in Calvin's office, one in Lizzie's, one in the Overboss's, and one in the entrance. He opened a line to the entrance.

"Bim?" He asked.

"Yes?" Bim responded, his voice coming through distorted and covered with static. It was an unfortunate consequence of no one really knowing how the machine worked, let alone knowing how to maintain it.

"Could you send someone to fetch Lizzie Wyath for me? Make sure she's told it's urgent," he said. After a moment, Bim responded.

"Yes, sir. Right away."

"And if you could tell me when she gets here?"

"I will, sir."

"Thank you, Bim."

Next, he buzzed through to Calvin's office.

"Calvin?"

A pause.

"Jerry?"

"Yes. Could you come over to my office, please?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

They waited in silence for the other two to arrive. Calvin, of course, showed up first. He entered the office cautiously, looking MacCready up and down with suspicion. He nodded his respects to the Overboss, and took a seat across from her against the wall.

"What's this about, Jerry?" He asked.

"I'll explain when Lizzie Wyath arrives."

And so they waited until Lizzie Wyath arrived.

The intercom buzzed.

"Boss?"

"Yes, Bim."

"Lizzie Wyath is here. She's on her way up."

"Thank you, Bim."

Within moments, she was entering the office. She did not enter cautiously, and she spared no more than a perfunctory glance towards MacCready.

"What is this, Jerry?" She demanded.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. If you'd have a seat?" Jerry responded. She frowned but sat next to Calvin.

"Mason has found us a mercenary, and no one can seem to decide what to do with him. I'd like your advice," Jerry said. Lizzie frowned again, and peered curiously at MacCready. Calvin frowned as well, thankfully in a more thoughtful manner.

"He's a mercenary? We don't need a mercenary, do we?" Lizzie asked. Jerry shook his head.

"No, we don't. Not really, anyway. I'm sure we could find a use for one somewhere, but we weren't looking for one," he answered.

"Where did we find him, exactly?" Calvin asked. Jerry shrugged, and gestured to MacCready.

"Answer the question," he said.

"Uh, I'd been hired by a group of settlers at Sunshine Tidings. They wanted me to help them set up some defenses. Your guy, Mason, attacked the place and took me prisoner. Simple as that," he said. Calvin nodded.

"I'd say kill him," Lizzie said. "We don't need a mercenary."

"Why not just let him go?" Jerry asked. Lizzie laughed.

"Let him go? He's seen every part of our operation, from the Outposts to the Castle. He's not exactly on our side, and we've given him no reason to be. If we let him go, he'll head straight to Goodneighbor or Diamond City and compromise us."

"I disagree. It could be useful to have someone like this working for us. Someone that can go to places like Goodneighbor and Diamond City without raising suspicion; John Hancock can recognize a raider from a thousand miles away. But a mercenary? Free to come and go as he pleases. Hire him, pay him well, and send him to do jobs that require more tact than our people typically possess," Calvin argued.

"I agree with that one," MacCready said, nodding eagerly and gesturing towards Calvin with his bound hands.

"Ridiculous. There's no way we could ever trust him. Even if we showered him in caps, he'd always be susceptible to someone willing to pay more," Lizzie countered.

"That's true of a lot of people here. What kind of raider wouldn't accept ten thousand caps, or a hundred thousand caps, to put a bullet in one of us? Sure, most of our people our loyal, but not that loyal," Calvin said.

"And how, exactly, does that change the fact that this mercenary would happily kill all of us if someone paid him enough to do it?" Lizzie asked.

Calvin thought for a moment.

"I suppose it doesn't, does it? And there is no guarantee we'd be able to pay him enough to keep that from happening," he said. He was quiet for a moment more.

"Alright. I agree with Wyath. Kill him," Calvin said.

"Now, wait a minute-" MacCready began.

"The Overboss and I came to the same conclusion," Jerry said. "I'm sorry, Mr. MacCready."

The Overboss, with perfect timing, drew her .44 and shot him in the head. His corpse collapsed to the floor. The blood would stain the carpet, but Jerry didn't really care. He pulled a Nuka-Cola from a drawer in his desk, and popped the cap. He took a drink.

"Was that it, Jerry?" Lizzie asked. He nodded.

"That was it," he said. She stood, nodded to him and the Overboss, and left.

The three of them sat there, Jerry sipping quietly at his Nuka-Cola, while the mercenary Robert Joseph MacCready's brain seeped into the carpeting.


	12. Chapter 12

When William returned to Sunshine Tidings Co-Op, it was early morning. But already, under Mason’s careful and efficient direction, the outpost was taking shape. A radio tower had been erected, built using pre-War schematics and salvaged materials; it sent out pre-recorded messages in every direction to intimidate surrounding settlements. And to warn travelers not to trespass. Water purifiers and generators were being put together, beds were being set up, guard posts and turrets were being strategically placed.

 It was industrious, but there were frequent delays when supplies ran short or schematics proved indecipherable. Few of them were literate, so those that could read were quickly singled out and made to translate for everyone else. Mason directed Ward to oversee the partitioning of supplies, who delegated the responsibility to an administratively inclined Operator.

Under that framework, the Nuka-World raiders established their first outpost in the Commonwealth.

William was ordered to relieve the Bossman in charge of setting up defenses, and he went to work immediately.

The day wore on. One by one, the necessities were satisfied. Water, power, beds, defenses. Food would have to be brought in from Nuka-World for some time, until they were able to impress nearby farms into paying tribute.

At noon the next day, the Overboss arrived.

She came alone. Sentries spotted her coming shortly before she arrived, so Mason and his lieutenants were waiting for her at the gate.

William and Ward flanked the Alpha, and they were flanked by a selection of their top men. It was a proper greeting party, possessing an air of formality and dignity that made them all stand a little straighter. If any of them had ever seen one, there might have been a bugle.

The Overboss was carrying a backpack, evidently laden with food and ammunition. Her revolver hung at her hip, and a rifle was slung over her shoulder. A smear of blood and dirt ran from her right eyebrow to her chin; it didn’t look like hers.

She took in the greeting party with a blank expression. William thought he saw her finger twitch at her side, but he wasn’t sure. Mason took a step forward, chin held high and chest puffed out.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said. Her eyes darted towards him, held his gaze. William found himself once more unnerved by the absolute lack of emotion she displayed. Her eyes, her stance, her face; all empty.

“I didn’t tell you,” she responded after a moment’s pause.

“We’ll have to build another bed,” he said, his tone gravely serious. One of the sentries snickered.

“Then maybe you should get to work,” she said. It was a dismissal, and the raiders got the message. The small procession broke up, heading back to their positions and tasks. After a minute, only the Overboss, Mason, and his lieutenants remained at the gate, motionless.

The Overboss gestured to William and Ward.

“Bring them. We need to talk,” she said, breaking the standoff and heading towards the central barn. Mason followed after her, and his lieutenants followed after him.

Inside the barn, they’d established a headquarters of sorts. Mason slept in the loft, but a series of desks, workstations, and crates populated the ground level. There were half a dozen raiders at work there, but they shuffled out after a curt word from Mason.

The Overboss dumped her backpack next to a supply crate, and set her rifle gingerly on a desk. Mason took a seat, and his lieutenants took up spots on either side of him.

She looked at them, briefly but carefully, and leaned against a desk opposite Mason. It was a casual pose; it made her look unassuming and careless. It was deceptive.

“The outpost looks good. You’re getting it done faster than we thought you would. Faster than you said you would,” she said. Mason nodded his head.

“There have been some problems, but I straightened them out. Once we get the first supply shipment from the Terminal, we can finish,” he responded.

“What do you need?” She asked. He took a deep breath. Mason was not an administrator, he was not a bureaucrat. Not by nature. But that was the role he had been forced to assume, at least for the moment. William thought he handled it well, extremely well for someone of his background and inclinations, but it wore the Alpha’s patience very thin.

“Steel. Copper wiring. Screws and bolts. Adhesive. 5.56 mm rounds. Some circuitry if we can get any; William wants to upgrade our turret design.”

“Send someone to the Terminal. Mags will handle it,” the Overboss responded.

“William can go,” Mason said. The Overboss shook her head.

“No. Send someone else. I have a use for these two,” she said. Mason frowned suspiciously. William and Ward struggled against shifting uncomfortably. Being the object of the Overboss’s _uses_ was not something one aspired to.

“What have you done to track down the Disciples?” She asked. Mason flinched visibly.

“We’ve been very busy,” he started to say, but she cut him off.

“ _Nothing gets done until we find her_ , Mason,” she growled with sudden ferocity. “That’s what you told me. Nothing gets done until she’s _mine_.”

“As soon as the outpost is on its feet…”

“No,” she interrupted. “You’re going to send these two into Boston. To look around, to see what there is to see, and report back to me.”

“I need them,” Mason said.

“Tough. I want them gone by tonight,” she responded. With that, she straightened, and gestured to the loft.

“Is that where you sleep?” She asked. Mason nodded.

“That’s where I’ll sleep, then,” she said. Mason twitched, but kept himself under control. The Pack understood deference better than most, and its Alpha was no exception.

She grabbed her rifle and started towards the loft.

“You’d better make sure your people finish your bed in time, Mason,” she said over her shoulder.

“Wouldn’t want you sleeping on the ground.”

* * *

 

William and Ward took ten raiders with them.

The trip into Boston was uneventful. They made sure to mark a number of settlements and farms they saw, though.

Once inside the city proper, they headed towards Goodneighbor and the State House.

Ward took point. They moved in file through the streets, keeping close to the buildings and staying as quiet as possible. There were things that dwelt in the city that they would do best not to attract. And so they progressed silently, but slowly.

William brought up the rear. He’d always hated being in the city. Hated the way the buildings cast long shadows on each other, the way the streets were clogged with rubble. The way the winding paths through the ruin seemed to be guiding you down a maze, guiding you deeper and deeper until you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to find your way out again. The tumbling sound of stones slipping underfoot were thunderous in the solemn quiet, echoing down the corridors like gunshots. With the omnipresent threat that something was at the other end of that corridor, listening and waiting behind some collapsed structure. Every pocket beneath the ruin held a manifold of shadows. Every dusty diner, glimpsed behind windows made opaque by the centuries, was a den of monsters, watching.

Victor, third from the front, went down. William didn’t realize he’d heard the shot until after he’d hit the ground. The raiders scattered, every one diving for a different outcropping of rubble for cover. Something howled, too far away to be what shot Victor, but too close not to be related. It was a guttural moan, a throaty declaration that blood had been shed, and there was more to be found.

Gunfire peppered the shattered section of wall William crawled behind, the slab of concrete too thick for the bullets to penetrate. The fiery hiss of laser fire accompanied the red beams that suddenly showered over them. Someone screamed, a raider. He kept screaming, pain and fear fueling him as he plummeted towards death, until he suddenly stopped. The hail of gunfire and laser fire continued unabated; each second getting closer and closer.

William clutched his rifle. His mind was racing, trying to trace the sounds back to their sources, trying to figure out a where to shoot and where to run. From what he could tell, their assailants were coming from the direction they were headed. That was bad news. But they could go around. He remembered seeing a side passage, an alley left mostly intact that they could go through. They could go around. But they had to get there first. He was near the alley, but he couldn’t see anyone else. He was the farthest away from where their attackers were, based on where he’d been in the line and where they were coming from.

He risked peering behind his cover, rifle ready and finger on the trigger. He could see Ward, slid into a narrow alleyway. He could see Victor, minus head, crumpled nearby. He could see the one who’d screamed and died, with a gaping cavity in his chest revealing his pulverized innards. And he could see their attackers.

The corridor ahead was flooded with Super Mutants. The green beasts were everywhere. On the ground, on the rooftops, hanging out of windows. And he couldn’t see their end. He’d never heard of so many in one place; there were too many to fight. They had to make a break for it.

Slowly, the raiders regained their wits, and began to shoot back. The Mutants’ front line broke, and those on the rooftops went to ground. The shooting abated, turning from a constant barrage to intermediate bursts traded back and forth.

“Ward!” William shouted. The other heard, and dashed towards him, covered by a sustained suppressive fire from his comrades.

Ward slid behind William’s wall, firing a couple shots in the Mutants’ direction as he did.

“You see that alley?” William asked, pointing. “We need to make a break for it.”

“Fuck that!” Ward responded. He broke to empty a magazine against the Mutants before continuing.

“I’m not running from a band of fucking Mutants,” he said ferociously. William grimaced.

“We can’t win. There are too many,” he said. The other spat on the ground between them, reloading his rifle.

“We are _not_ running from _Mutants_. No fucking way. I don’t care how many there are,” Ward growled.

“If we don’t get out of here, we’re going to die,” William responded. A chunk of their cover exploded suddenly, pelting them with debris. Ward took aim, and fired a burst towards a Mutant on a roof. He hit, and the thing went down.

He rolled back into cover, and sat contemplatively. He bit his lip until it bled, his face twisted with rage and disgust. But, he quickly seemed to reach a decision.

“Fine. We run,” he said. William let out a shaky breath in relief. If Ward resisted, they’d have been trapped there, and they’d die.

“Alright. That alley is clear. We can all fit through it; we follow it down as far as we can, and take a parallel street up. Simple as that,” William said.

“We have to get everyone there first,” Ward responded. “If we do it one at a time, the last couple won’t make it. We won’t be able to cover them well enough.”

“Right. Who brought grenades?”

“Oh, fuck,” Ward answered. Then, William remembered.

“Okay, we’ll need everybody to cover us so we can drag his body back here,” he said. Ward nodded his head.

“Victor’s not that heavy, but I’m stronger. I’ll go,” he said.

“Fine. If you can, just grab the grenades,” William responded. Ward snorted.

“No shit?”

“If you can get over to whoever’s nearest, he and I can cover you well enough to grab Victor,” William continued. The other nodded, and started to count down with fingers. When he reached the last, William leaped up and started shooting, and Ward dove out of cover.

He got to the next person before William ran out of rounds in his magazine. William reloaded while he presumably imparted the plan.

William peeked around the wall, and made eye contact with Ward. Again, he counted down with his fingers. And again, when he reached the last, William stood and started shooting. He was joined by the other, a Pack named Ted, and they kept the Mutants down while Ward ran to Victor’s corpse, grabbed the bag containing their grenades, and dashed back towards William.

Ward made it with a barrage of gunfire following seconds after.

“Got it. Alright. We toss a couple of these, get everybody into the alley, run,” Ward said.

“Right,” William responded. “Go.”

* * *

 

They made it.

William, Ward, and the other eight stumbled through the street, ears still ringing and blood still pumping, unsure of where they were or where they were going.

The Mutant ambush hadn’t lasted long. It was less than hour later, but the sun was already hugging the horizon.

When the first sound came drifting to their ears, they all immediately fell against the buildings lining the street, taking cover. But it wasn’t gunfire, it wasn’t mutant howling. It was laughter.

Carousing.

William stepped back into the street. Slowly, the others followed his lead. They crept towards the source of the noise, cautious and alert.

There were raiders on lookout, but they didn’t see the Nuka-World group until they were nearly on top of them.

“Hey!” One of the lookouts cried. “Come out here where we can see you. That’s better. There are only ten of you? Good. You look like raiders, too.”

“What is this place,” William asked.

“This is the Combat Zone. And if you want to go inside, you need to pay the fee.”

“We aren’t-”

“How much?” Ward interrupted.

“Twenty-five caps a head. And that’s just to get past the door. Anything inside costs more.”

William pulled Ward aside.

“We aren’t going in,” he said.

“Why the fuck not? We’re all exhausted.”

“It’d be asking for trouble. And we can’t afford to spend two-hundred and fifty caps.”

“I’m sure if you asked very nicely, your sister would forgive you.”

Ward approached the lookout.

“Who do we give the money to?”

“Me.”

“Fuck you. Who’s in charge?”

“Tommy runs the joint. He’s inside. Give the money to him.”

“Fine.”

Reluctantly, William and the others followed Ward into the Combat Zone.

Smoke, hanging thick in the air, obscured what lay beyond the entry. Arrhythmic noises drifted through the smog, the sounds of drinking and fighting and carousing. Neon lights flickered above the door, and further inside cast long, banded colors in the haze like a kaleidoscope. Pulsing sounds, pulsing lights.

As Ward ventured deeper, William pulled everyone else aside.

“I want everybody ready. If anything happens, _anything_ , I don’t to be caught off guard. If one of these thugs starts something, put ‘em down. If things get out of control, burn the place to the ground. Understood?”

All eight chimed agreement.

“Fine,” he said. “We aren’t staying long.”

They followed after Ward.

The centerpiece of the Combat Zone was an arena. Chairs, tables, and bars all sprang up around it, oriented so everyone could see what was happening inside.

At the moment, two people were throwing fisticuffs. A man, large and bulky, against a woman, a small redhead. And the woman seemed to be winning.

He threw a jab at her head; she dodged, grabbed his arm and twisted it around his back. He collapsed to his knees, and she used his arm as leverage to slam her foot into the back of his head until something snapped.

William took a seat at an empty bar. A ghoul was tending it, another raider like the patrons.

“How much for a drink?” William asked him. The ghoul snorted, moist and fleshy.

“A thousand caps a shot. Fuck off,” he responded. William twitched, but said nothing.

The redhead woman was bashing the man’s skull to paste with her heel. She was screaming, a mix of cursing and animal howling. A pair of men, a ghoul dressed in a worn suit and a fierce looking raider, entered the arena, and dragged her kicking and screaming out of it.

The audience surged with glee.

“Who runs this joint?” William asked the ghoul.

“Do I look like a brochure? Go fuck yourself, pretty boy,” he answered, using a filthy rag to dry battered glasses.

“If you don’t serve drinks, do you just sit around washing cups for kicks?”

The ghoul put down the glass, and leaned over the bar to glare in William’s face. One of his eyes had atrophied into mush, leaking slowly out of the socket.

“Did you not get the message the first time, asshole? I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. And I’m not going to serve you any fucking drinks,” he rasped angrily. William’s grip tightened around his pistol.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” a woman shouted with a thick accent. William spun around, eyes darting back and forth to find her.

It was the girl from the arena. She had put a man on the ground with a punch to the gut, and was dragging him to his feet for another.

And that man, of course, was Ward.

William cursed.

The woman swung at him again, but he caught her wrist.

“ _Cunt_!” He barked, and slapped her with enough force to send her sprawling. She leaped up with both fists flying; he kicked her full in the stomach, knocking her to the ground.

The ghoul in the suit was headed that way with surprising agility, but William got there first.

“Ward!” He hissed, grabbing the other man’s arm and pulling him back.

“What the fuck are you doing?” William demanded. Ward sneered at him, yanking his arm free of the other’s grasp. The woman seized the moment, and slammed into Ward head-first, sending them both sprawling into a pair of tables.

A commotion was forming around them, the local raiders circling around jeering and shouting. William noted with apprehension that his own raiders were silently forming another, larger circle around theirs.

“Ward, get up,” he said. The ghoul in the suit pushed his way past the crowd, and grabbed at his fighter. He succeeded in pulling her away from Ward, who staggered to his feet unsteadily. Both were bloody, but he looked much worse than her.

“Who are you people?” The ghoul growled, restraining the woman as she surged towards Ward.

“That bitch attacked me,” Ward answered, wiping blood from his lip.

“ _Fucker_!” The woman responded. William took a step forward, holding his hands up nonthreateningly.

“Listen, we aren’t looking to cause-” He started to say.

Ward pulled his gun and pointed it at the woman.

The entire room burst into action. Local raiders scrambled to draw their weapons, only to finally notice the ring of Nuka-World raiders that had formed around them, rifles drawn and ready.

They settled into a standoff.

“Everybody put your guns down,” the suited ghoul shouted. “This is my establishment, and I said _put your guns down_!”

“Let’s all relax,” William said. “Let’s all just relax.”

“Fuck that,” Ward responded. Somebody pulled a trigger.

When the last body fell, all ten Nuka-World raiders were still standing. A ghoul was laying on the ground, the contents of his gut laying on the floor next to him. William put a bullet in his face.

“Talk to me,” he yelled. One by one, his people responded. Fine, alright, took a hit but still standing. All except Ward.

“Where’s Ward?”

“He took that girl into the other room,” someone answered. William clenched his jaw, and marched in the direction they pointed.

Ward was pounding his fist into her jaw, straddling her on the ground. She beat on his sides as best she could, but every strike was weaker than the last, until they stopped coming at all. Her face was a bloody froth, fragments of bone shredding the soft skin into pulp. But she was still breathing.

He ripped at her clothes, growling fiercely as he did.

William burst into the room, and kicked him off her. Ward’s pants were already around his knees, his erection bare and twitching.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” William snapped. “How fucking stupid do you have to be?”

He pulled the other to his feet, and threw him against the wall. Ward groaned as he collapsed to the floor.

William kept on, kicking him again and again and again.

Ward vomited blood. William stumbled back, breathing heavily.

“You fucking idiot. Get up,” he said. Ward just lay there, blood seeping from his mouth. “Get up.”

“Boss, I don’t think he’s getting up,” somebody said at the door. William spun around to face them, flaring.

And the man flinched. William stared at him, grinding his teeth together until he could feel the pain in his temples.

“Who has the stimpaks?”

“I think Mick does,” the man responded.

“Get him. Make sure Ward doesn’t die,” William ordered. The man leaped to obey.

The girl was still there, writhing on the ground pitifully.

William knelt beside her, pistol in his hand.

“What’s your name?”

Her mouth was barely able to move, the entire lower jaw pulverized.

But a faint whisper breathed past her lips. “F-fuck…”

William pressed his pistol to her forehead, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

 

They got to the State House, and found it empty. The decaying corpses of Super Mutants littered the building, adding to the already fetid stench of death.

And, on the top floor, in the farthest room, buried in the rotting body of a Mutant, was a Disciple’s knife.

* * *

 

When the ten returned to Sunshine Tidings, they found Mason had finished the last touches, and the outpost was complete. A new building had been built, a store house, and the central barn had been converted fully into an executive suite. Turrets adorned the walls, which wrapped entirely around the outpost and were solidly braced.

And, most importantly, there were more people. The last shipment of supplies had been brought by the next wave, the group Mason would lead to found the next outpost. Those that had taken Sunshine Tidings would remain there, and get to work on the neighboring settlements.

William brought the knife straight to Mason and the Overboss.

The Overboss took it, holding it gently as if it were some precious jewel.

“So they were there,” Mason said. William nodded.

“All the Mutants were dead. We found no other sign of them, though. They must have cleared it out and moved on,” he said.

Mason frowned.

“That doesn’t tell us much, then.”

“It tells us enough,” the Overboss said. “We know they were in the area. That’s more than we knew before.”

“And it means someone in Goodneighbor might have seen them,” William offered.

“Yes,” the Overboss said. “You can get back to it, Mason. Take me another outpost.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Alpha said happily.

“I’m going back to the Terminal,” the Overboss continued. “I’ll tell Mags to build that radio tower we discussed. Be ready to receive.”

“Of course. William, prepare a bag for the Overboss’s trip,” Mason said. William inclined his head, and got to work.

The Overboss strolled out, her expression empty, absently toying with the Disciple’s knife in her hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not like writing this chapter. So it took unusually long. The next will probably be along shortly.


	13. Chapter 13

The Terminal was quiet.

Mags sat at her desk, pen scratching at paper. She glanced out a window, prying for some glimpse of the work she knew was happening outside.

Quietly industrious.

That was what her life had become.

“Ma’am.”

“What is it, Wick?”

“A note from Jerry. His 12.7mm supplies are running low again.”

Mags put her pen down, and cradled her head.

“I assume he sent a requisition?”

“No, ma’am. Just this note. Asked that it be delivered to you personally.”

Wick handed her the note, and she read it. It was unusual for Jerry to break from the system they’d established. In fact, it had never happened before.

“This is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Doesn’t say much, does it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, tell Sidney to pull the ammo records and bring them to me. I’ll handle it myself.”

Wick said he would, and left her. She didn’t pick up where she’d left off, but sat watching over the Terminal.

Lamps were being lit, and the cafeteria was filling up. Work was slowing to a crawl, and would soon cease entirely. Except for hers.

Hers and the slaves’.

“Ma’am?”

“Come in, Sidney. Put those there. Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Two boxes full of papers. They’d started keeping records little over a month ago, and they were already running out of storage.

Manila folders and accordion files. Diamond City wasn’t so civilized.

She worked until sunrise.

* * *

 

“We don’t know when the Overboss is coming back. But when she left, Jerry says she was dissatisfied with our apparent lack of progress regarding the Disciples,” Mags said.

Her lieutenants, Jordan and Riley, had joined her in her office for a meeting. A “status conference”. Mags had found herself slipping into Old-World parlance more and more. She didn’t know what to think of that.

“What are we supposed to do about it?” Riley asked.

“It makes sense for Mason to be the front-line on this, not us,” Jordan said.

“Nevertheless, I’ve decided we need to be doing something.”

“We’re stretched too thin already. You have half my men working construction, and the other half are barely enough to handle the defenses,” Riley countered.

“I know. Which is why we aren’t going to send any of your men. Or any of yours, Jordan. I want the two of you to handle this personally.”

Jordan snorted.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It takes constant attention to keep this place operational. We can’t just go gallivanting off to hunt the Disciples,” he said.

“I am well aware of the work you both do. And I have decided that a show of effort in finding the Disciples is necessary.”

“A ‘show of effort’? What does that mean?” Jordan asked suspiciously.

Mags sighed, shifting awkwardly in her chair. She briefly contemplated when the last time she’d stood was, but gave up.

“It means I don’t actually care if you find the Disciples. I just want to be able to show the Overboss that we’re doing something. That progress is being made.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“Shut up and I’ll tell you. I want you both to go to Diamond City. There’s a private eye there; a detective named Nick Valentine. I want you to hire him.”

“And tell him what?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jordan. Tell him whatever it takes. Pay him whatever he asks.”

“Whatever he asks?”

“Yes. So long as what he asks is less than a thousand caps. Because that’s all you’re getting.”

“You want us to go to Diamond City and hire a detective, so when the Overboss comes knocking you can tell her we’re making progress,” Riley said.

“Was it too complicated for you to get the first time around? Yes, Riley. That is what I want. Requisition the supplies you’ll need from Sidney. And I’ll give you the caps myself when you’re ready to leave.”

“Alright, boss. You’re the boss,” Jordan said. He left.

“Do you need something more?”

“Yeah, boss. We’re running out of 12.7mm to load the perimeter turrets with.”

“Then use 5.56 like a normal person.”

“Boss, we need stronger defenses. If I load the turrets with 12.7mm, it’ll take a dozen Deathclaws to breach this place. But 5.56 won’t stop a feral ghoul.”

“There isn’t enough 12.7mm to go around, Riley. Jerry wants it, you want it, Mason wants it. Everybody wants it, but there just isn’t enough. Use 5.56 for the turrets. Did you get the note Lizzie sent me?”

“Yeah, I got it. We don’t have enough resources for that, though. And the wiring is beyond any of us.”

“I’ll put that in my response to Lizzie. Maybe she can come out here and show you how to build one herself. As to the resources, I don’t know what to tell you. Give me a detailed report on what you’ll need, and I’ll look into it.”

“It’ll be easier to use the 12.7mm. And no matter how expensive it is, I’m sure it’s cheaper than using fucking _missiles_.”

“You’d be shocked. Now get out of here. I want you in Diamond City before sundown tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Riley took a bite of cold Cram, and swallowed it. The cafeteria buzzed around her. But it was subdued. They were all tired, one way or another.

The Terminal had less fighting, less fucking, and less drugging than any raider post she’d ever seen. They were all too damn tired.

Jordan sat beside her, InstaMash and bloodworm cubes on his tray.

“Ever been to Diamond City?” He asked her.

“Once.”

“Not me. I’ve been to Goodneighbor more times than I can count, but never the Great Green Jewel.”

“Goodneighbor is more fun.”

“Heh. Yeah, I bet it is.”

They ate.

“I can’t stand Cram. I’d rather eat rad-rat,” Jordan said.

“So would I. Too bad we don’t have any rad-rat here.”

“Not worth exporting, I guess.”

“No.”

People started to file out. Back to work. Or to get what little sleep they could before going back to work.

“InstaMash, though. I could eat that all day.”

“Good for you.”

“You ever have those Fancy Lad Snack Cakes?”

“What the fuck are you trying to do? You want to fuck or something?”

Jordan put down his blue plastic spoon slowly.

“We’re going to Diamond City together. It’s a hard road. And once we’re there, all it’ll take is one hint that we’re raiders, and they’ll shoot us dead,” he said.

“And talking about your fucking lunch helps us with that?”

“Yes. Because we need to be able to blend in with _them_. What’s your favorite thing to do?”

“Kill things.”

“I like to fuck things. And that shit doesn’t go in Diamond City. So we need to talk about my fucking lunch, so they don’t fucking kill us.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“And you’re a stupid bitch.”

He picked up his spoon and they ate. A slave pushed a broom across the floorboards, accomplishing little.

“You better with a pistol or rifle?” Riley asked.

“Pistol. Why?”

“I’m going to go req some weapons and ammo.”

“Alright. Just meet me at Mags’ office by noon.”

She threw the Cram can at the slave’s feet, and walked out. He threw it in a bucket, and kept pushing around scraps.

Jordan finished his InstaMash and bloodworm cubes, and left the tray on the table.

Outside, day was just breaking. His breath condensed in front of him in smoky plumes. The hard work of construction would keep a lot of raiders alive in the coming months. But more would die.

He wandered towards the consumable supplies office, taking his time.

Raiders that recognized him would incline their heads, or avoid him entirely. Women he’d fucked would look at him like some precious gem, and men he’d fought looked at him like a ferocious predator.

He was bit shit now. He ran with the bosses.

People would do things for him. Things they wouldn’t have done before. If somebody brought in some fancy chem, he’d get first shot. If he mentioned wanting booze, booze would find its way into his room. And he was never wanting of women to share it with.

Too bad he barely had time to enjoy any of it.

The consumable supplies office was quiet. The boy at the front desk was buried in a ledger. Jordan could just see through the door to the dozen slaves making records in the back rooms.

“Kyle, right?”

“Uh, no sir. Harold.”

“Harold. Fuck. Okay. Give me a req form.”

“Yes sir. Here you go.”

“Good.”

Jordan leaned against the desk, and began filling out the form.

Mags and Jerry had devised a deceptively simple system for requisition supplies. The form was basic. Name, date, job, supplies requested, purpose for supplies, authorization (if applicable), date of last requisition, supplies last requested, authorization of previous requisition (if applicable), name again.

Then, the person on duty would put their name and the date at the bottom, and file it with the appropriate person.

Easy. Anyone literate could do it.

But the process for approval could take days, or weeks, depending on what was being requisitioned. A food request would probably take days. Guns and ammo would take weeks. A non-work related adhesive requisition had yet to be even considered.

Thankfully, Jordan was in charge of approving consumable supplies requisitions.

“Here you go, Kyle.”

“H-Harold, sir.”

“What? Oh, right. Just finish the form.”

“Yes, sir. Here you go sir.”

“Do you have my stamp?”

“I think it’s in your office, sir.”

“Go get it for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the boy returned with Jordan’s stamp, he pressed it against the form in the appropriate box.

“Back to you. Tell the slaves I need these right now.”

“Of course, sir.”

Jordan heard him in the back, telling the slaves what to gather. None of them could read, so they had to be given every requisition verbally. They could count, though, and they were trained with the records enough to fill them out.

Mags had considered starting classes for literacy. He didn’t know if that was going anywhere.

“Alright, you dumb fuckers. The boss wants this right now, which means you _aren’t moving fast enough you stupid sons of bitches_.”

He hit one of them. Jordan heard the thud, and the whimper that followed.

The boy returned with a crate full of food and bottles of water.

“Here you are, sir. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Kyle. That’ll be all.”

The boy flinched.

“Of course, sir. Are you going somewhere, sir? If I may ask?”

“I am. I probably won’t be back until the end of the week. While I’m gone, Harold is in charge. Make sure he gets my stamp.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll let him know.”

“No need. I’ll tell him myself. I know where he lives.”

“Of course, sir. Have a nice trip.”

Jordan took the crate and left.

He found who he was looking for on his way to Mags’ office.

“Harold. I was looking for you.”

“It’s Kyle, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Right, right. I’m going somewhere. I won’t be back until the end of the week. I need you to handle things while I’m gone.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Don’t get carried away. Just deny everything that isn’t authorized by one of the bosses, and keep things running smoothly.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good.”

Jordan started to walk past him, but stopped.

“Oh, and I left my stamp with Kyle at the consumable supplies office.”

“I’ll be sure to stop by and get it from him.”

“Right.”

He stopped by his own room, on the second floor of the general dormitory. He found a sturdy backpack, and carefully loaded all the supplies in it. He also grabbed a worn, heavily-modified 10mm pistol from underneath his pillow, and holstered it at his belt.

He found Riley outside Mags’ office, just like he’d said. She had a rifle slung over her shoulder, and offered him a .44 as he approached.

He took it, and holstered it opposite his 10mm.

“You’re early,” she said.

“So are you.”

“Might as well leave now, then.”

“Might as well.”

They went into the office, and climbed up to the third floor, where Mags had her office.

And the boss was there, as she almost always was, sitting at her desk huddled over a stack of papers.

But she was not alone. Sitting with her back to the wall, watching them passively as they entered, was the Overboss.

“Boss,” Jordan said. “I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

“Ma’am,” Riley said.

The Overboss looked them over. Jordan fought the urge to wilt.

“The Overboss only just arrived. She came straight to me,” Mags said. “She has a different plan for you.”

“You aren’t going to Diamond City,” the Overboss said. “I want you to go to Goodneighbor instead.”

“Mason sent a detachment into the city to search the old State House, and found evidence that the Disciples had been there,” Mags said. “You’re going to determine if anyone in Goodneighbor has had contact with them. If they’ve traded with anyone. If they were holed up at the State House, they likely have.”

“Okay. We’ll leave immediately,” Riley said.

“Do. Find out whatever you can at Goodneighbor and report back. That’s it. If you find any leads, I don’t want you to move on them. Not alone, and not now,” Mags said.

Jordan and Riley left.

Mags put down her pen, and pinched the bridge of her nose. The Overboss watched her.

“You’ve done good work here,” she said suddenly.

Mags looked up.

“We don’t have enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Enough anything. We need more men. We need more bullets. We need more wood, more steel, more adhesive. And we don’t have anywhere to get it.”

“Once Mason has established more outposts, we’ll start gathering resources.”

“That’s too far away, Boss. And it won’t be enough anyway.”

The Overboss said nothing.

“We need to start trading,” Mags said after a while. She expected some kind of reaction. Some flicker of surprise or reprehension. But she should have known better.

“With who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. We’re pushing these raiders too far as it is. We’re trying to domesticate them too much and too quickly. We’re trying to make raiders fill out forms. We’re trying to impose a system of order. We’re trying to civilize them. It’s all happening too fast. They’re going to snap…. Some people are taking to it. Some of them are starting to forget they were ever bloodthirsty murderers. But only a few. Not enough.”

“Should we stop?”

“We can’t stop. If we stopped, we’d collapse right back to where we started. We need this to grow. But I don’t think…”

“Don’t think what?”

“I don’t know, Boss. I just don’t know.”

The Overboss stood.

“I’m going to Diamond City,” she said. “I’m going to talk to Nick Valentine.”

“Is that a good idea, Boss?”

She looked Mags in the eye, held her gaze.

“Get the radio tower built. Establish communication with Mason at Sunshine Tidings. I’ll be back.”

“Yes, Boss.”

* * *

 

“Once we’re inside, we should split up,” Jordan said. Riley, crouched beside him, nodded.

The neon sign beside the gate to Goodneighbor flickered.

“You should go to the merchants. Start with the robot. It should talk pretty easy,” he said. “I’ll go to the bar. Ask around there.”

“Fuck no,” she said. “I’ll go to the bar. You handle the merchants.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t trust you not to get shitfaced and wake up in an alley missing organs.”

“Fuck you, Riley.”

“I don’t wanna be the one to tell the Overboss you got yourself killed.”

“Or the one to tell her we didn’t find anything.”

“Damn straight. Let’s roll.”

The gate opened as they approached. They were met by two sharply dressed men. One held up a hand.

“Hold up. What’s your business?” He asked.

“What do you care?” Riley responded.

The other squared his stance, arms folded in front of him.

“What’s your business?” The first asked.

“Putting my gun up your ass and seeing if I can blow your brains out,” Riley said.

Their expressions didn’t change.

“Let’s leave our guns where they are,” Jordan said, as he moved his hand to rest on his 10mm.

“You must be a pussy of a raider,” the second man said.

“You must be a pussy,” Riley responded.

“Since when did Goodneighbor have a welcoming committee?” Jordan asked.

“Since raider scum started walking through the gate.”

Riley, in a single rapid motion, whirled her rifle off her shoulder and leveled it towards the Triggermen.

“We’re not raiders,” she said. “Just honest traders.”

“Hey!” Came a shout. The mayor of Goodneighbor came around a corner, flanked by bodyguards.

“What the fuck are you doing,” the ghoul said to no one in particular.

“Questioning these _honest traders_ , Mayor,” the first Triggerman said.

The mayor eyed Jordan and Riley.

“Right. Honest traders. Put the gun down, honest trader, or Fahrenheit here will burn you to ash,” he said. One of his bodyguards hefted a flamethrower in their direction.

Riley spent too long considering it for Jordan’s tastes. She slung her rifle back over her shoulder.

“That’s more like it,” the mayor said. “You two start anymore trouble, and I’ll kill you myself. But everyone on the level is welcome in Goodneighbor.”

“We won’t be here long,” Jordan said.

“Good. Spend some caps while you’re here. Make yourself useful,” the mayor responded. With a gesture to his bodyguards, he left in the direction he’d came.

“You two start any trouble, and the mayor won’t get the change you kill you himself,” the second Triggerman said. “You’ll already be dead.”

“We’ll have killed you ourselves,” the first said.

“Goddamnit, Rex. That was the fucking point,” the second responded.

“I wasn’t sure they got it.”

They walked away, bickering.

Jordan and Riley exchanged glances.

“Why don’t we stick together,” Jordan said.

“Not a bad idea,” she responded.

The weapons vendor KL-E-O had her store near the gate. Jerry and Riley went in.

The Assaultron swiveled her head to face them, and motors deep inside her chassis whirred.

“Hey, baby. Lookin’ to buy or sell?”

“Neither,” Riley answered. The Assaultron’s left hand rotated.

“Then you’re in the wrong place. All we have here are guns. And melee weapons for a more _intimate_ kill.”

“Melee weapons? Sell any knives?” Jordan asked. The robot’s head swiveled from Riley to him.

“Oh, yeah. Long knives, short knives, _serrated_ knives.”

“Do you sell a lot of those?”

“Most people prefer guns. Less blood with a gun,” she responded. “But _I_ like it bloody.”

“Know anyone else that likes it bloody?”

The Assaultron whirred.

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“We’re trying to find a group of people. We think they might have come into town to trade. I think you’d remember them if they came to you,” Jordan said.

“I think you heard me, baby. You don’t look deaf.”

“I heard you. But I’m hoping you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“They call themselves the Disciples. They have a unique design for their knives,” Jordan pressed. The Assaultron’s head opened, and the laser inside began to glow.

“I bought a new gun last week. I’ve been waiting _so patiently_ for a chance to test it out,” she said. “Give me a chance.”

“Let’s leave,” Riley said, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Now.”

“Thanks for your time, K-L-EO,” he said, as they hurried out.

“I’d say they’ve been here,” he said when they were outside.

“No shit. But we need more than that to tell the Overboss,” Riley responded. She gestured to the storefront next to K-L-EO’s.

Daisy’s Discounts was a general store. Daisy herself stood behind the counter, flipping idly through a charred book.

“I try to find words that can still be read. Never do,” she said when they entered, closing the book and putting it under the counter. “What can I do you for?”

“We do it my way this time,” Riley said. Jordan nodded, and gently closed the door. Daisy was standing perfectly still, one hand beneath the counter.

Jordan turned, and pulled his 10mm.

“Move and I shoot you,” he said. Riley went around the ghoul woman, and pinned both of her arms behind her back.

Then she slammed her face against the counter.

A thick smear of skin was left behind, and oily blood oozed from gash on Daisy’s face.

“We’re looking for some friends of ours,” Riley said. “They wear funny helmets. Like to kill people.”

“Fuck you,” Daisy responded.

Riley threw her against a wall, and punched her across the face.

“Kind of like me. Only they’re creepier about it,” she said. Daisy spat red-yellow blood in her face.

“Jordan. Come around here and shoot her in the kneecaps.”

“I don’t have a silencer.”

“Then put it right up to her skin.”

“I don’t think that’d work.”

“Fuck you, Jordan.”

She grabbed Daisy again, and bent her over the counter. Extending one of Daisy’s arms straight, she put it against the edge of the counter.

“Seen anybody like that around here? Tell me, or I break your arm in half.”

“Alright. Alright! I’ll talk,” Daisy snarled. Riley didn’t move.

“Back off, fucker,” Daisy said.

“You talk, I let you go.”

“Son of a bitch. Fine. A couple people like that have been coming around here lately. Every couple days for the past few weeks. Caused some trouble last time they were here, and Hancock threw ‘em out.”

“That’s it?”

“They only came in here once or twice. And they weren’t as talkative as you folks.”

“Did any of them have names?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“What did they do to get thrown out?”

“They killed somebody. Some Triggerman that got to uppity, I guess. Cut him clean open, dick to chin. Fucking disgusting. Good thing for them it was a Triggerman, or Hancock would’ve killed ‘em then and there.”

Riley let go of her, and went back around the counter. With the pistol Daisy kept underneath it firmly in hand.

Daisy straightened, rubbing her arm at the elbow.

“Is that all, or do you want to cut off a finger? For appearances?”

“I don’t think so. You’ve been very helpful,” Jordan said.

“Get the fuck out, you goddamn sons of bitches. I need to clean the counter.”

They went outside. Neighborhood Watch members were lighting streetlamps around the main square. K-L-EO’s neon sign cast a palette of multicolored lights on the ground.

“That confirms it. They were here,” Jordan said.

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t actually tell us much, though. I get the feeling nobody will know more, though.”

“I doubt it. The Disciples are fucking psychos, but they keep good discipline,” she responded.

“We might want to check with the mayor, though. Hancock. See what he knows.”

“Fine.”

They started in the direction of the mayor’s office.

A man stepped out of the shadows of an alley, directly in their path. He was dark-skinned, with closely shaved hair and mirrored sunglasses that rebuffed insight even in the evening shade. He wore a gray leather trench coat, with a high neckline.

And he had a gun. A white and black laser rifle that looked like it was made of plastic.

He ignored Jordan, and approached Riley.

“Y3-11, initialize factory reset. Authorization gamma-”

Jordan pulled his 10mm and put three bullets in the man’s face.

One went through the right side of his sunglasses. The glass shattered and the bullet lodged itself in the eye.

Another went into his cheek. It cut through the skin, and flattened against teeth that didn’t break.

The last hit the man in the cheekbone. The impact flattened it, and it fell to the ground thin as a coin.

The man turned to look at Jordan.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

The man said nothing. He raised his rifle, and blasted Jordan in the chest. The beam of blue light threw Jordan three feet through the air. He collided with a wall, and crumpled to the ground.

Riley was already shooting.

Her rifle was more effective. The man was visibly stunned by every shot, driven back until his back was against a wall. Riley kept shooting, shredding his uniform and the skin beneath.

And, at last, blood began to show.

She kept shooting until the magazine ran empty.

Jordan was on his feet. He pulled his .44 magnum, and fired every chamber point blank into the man’s forehead.

That did the trick. The skull split, spilling blood and brain matter. The man collapsed, clothes torn and flesh tattered.

Out of his open skull slid a device. Both Jordan and Riley, and the crowd that had gathered around them, recognized what it was. And what the man had been.

A synth.

“Motherfucking fuck,” Riley said.

The mayor pushed through the crowd with his bodyguards trailing behind him.

He saw Jordan and Riley standing there, splattered in blood, and his nostril slits flared.

“You. Get the fuck out of my town,” he said.

“Boss,” one of his bodyguards said. “Look at this.”

She held up the synth component. Hancock stared at it. He looked back at Jordan and Riley.

“Alright. I don’t know shit about shit, and I don’t want to. So just leave and don’t come back,” he said.

“Yeah. Sounds good,” Jordan said. Riley just stood there, staring at the dead synth. He grabbed her arm, jostling her to follow. She did.

They left Goodneighbor, with John Hancock watching them go, while scavengers picked over the courser corpse.

* * *

 

“You’re a synth,” Jordan said.

Riley glared at him over the small campfire.

“I am not. And even if I was, fuck it. I don’t care.”

“That synth was talking to you. What did he call you? Y-eleven-thirty?”

“Y-three-elev… Shut the fuck up. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right. Y3-11.”

“I said shut up.”

“Should I start calling you that? It’s your given name, after all.”

“I’ll kill you.”

He stared at her. The fire’s shadows danced around them.

“What will people think? A synth among us. An Institute spy. In a position of power, no less.”

“They won’t think. Because they won’t know,” she responded. Jordan shrugged.

“Maybe they won’t.”

“No. Not maybe. They _won’t_. Do you understand me?”

“From where I’m sitting, it looks I’m the one deciding that.”

He stood up, and walked around the campfire to stand over her.

“And I’m thinking, if I’m not going to tell anyone that you’re a synth, I’m going to need something in return,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Take off your clothes.”

“No.”

“Do it. Or I’ll tell everyone.”

“You’re a spineless pussy. You won’t tell anyone shit.”

“I’ll tell the Overboss. How do you think she’ll respond to an Institute spy in the ranks?”

Riley stared up at him. Her lip twitched.

“It’s fine. Don’t take off your clothes. We’ll start simple.”

He unzipped his pants, and pulled out his semi-hard penis. He presented it to her.

She grabbed it, and slowly put her lips around it. Her tongue.

Jordan let out a long breath, and entangled one hand in her hair. As his member swelled, he began to thrust into her face.

“You suck pretty good for a machine.”

She took his penis out of her mouth, and stroked it with one hand. With the other, she pulled a knife from her backpack.

He realized what she had when she touched the cold steel to his testicles.

“Would you rather I cut off your balls or your cock?”

When he tried to pull back, she grabbed his testicles and held him there, knife against skin.

“Fuck. Fuck. Just relax. I’ll forget it. I’ll forget it. I won’t tell anyone. Just relax,” he stammered.

She flashed the knife, and pricked his thigh. It was a surface wound; it drew blood but wasn’t serious.

She stood up, letting go of his testicles. He pulled his pants back around his waist, and stumbled to the other side of the campfire.

“You crazy bitch.”

“Yeah.”

They sat there, in silence. She pulled a can of Cram from his backpack, and popped the lid. With a plastic fork, she started to eat it.

* * *

 

The first thing they saw of the Terminal was the new radio tower.

It had been built on top of on the parking garages, next to Mags’ office, and it stood high above everything else.

Jordan and Riley went straight there.

Mags was at her desk, bent over some paperwork. They looked like new forms to Jordan.

“What are those?” He asked.

“Requests for radio time. Messages to Sunshine Tidings,” Mags responded without looking up.

“Don’t we already have a radio tower?” Riley asked.

“We do. But it isn’t big enough or close enough to reach Sunshine Tidings. Besides, it belongs to Red-Eye,” she said.

With a sigh, she put down her pen and looked at them.

“I assume, since you bothered to come back, you found something in Goodneighbor?”

“The Disciples had been there,” Riley said.

“They were going in pretty regularly to trade. Nobody knew where they were based,” Jordan continued.

“They were? They aren’t anymore?”

“Apparently they killed somebody and got ran out of town,” he said.

“When?”

“Less than a week ago.”

Mags sat back, thoughtful.

“Where is the Overboss?” Riley asked. Jordan glanced at her.

“She went to Diamond City. She’s going to talk to Nick Valentine herself,” Mags responded.

“The Overboss,” Jordan said.

“In Diamond City,” Riley finished.

Mags grunted.

“That’s right. And I don’t want that fact to be spread,” she said. “Understood?”

“Yeah, boss,” they both answered.

“Good. Alright. You can take the rest of tonight to rest up. But I want you back to work in the morning. Mason has big plans for a new outpost, and we’re going to need to figure out how to supply it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Riley, I got a note from Lizzie. She’ll come out tomorrow or the next day to demonstrate her device. Show you how to build it. I’ve approved preliminary requisitions, so I want production to start immediately.”

“Sounds good. How many?”

“As many as you can.”

“What’s this device?” Jordan asked.

Mags cracked a grin.

“Since we can’t use 12.7mm in our turrets, we’re going to use missiles.”

Jordan blinked.

“Missile turrets? That’s insane.”

“Something like that. Like I said, Riley, I want production to start as soon as possible. Rest well, you two. We have busy days ahead of us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took longer than I said it would. Oops.


	14. Chapter 14

I leaned my back against the wall beside the door. Nobody coming in would see me and everybody coming in would have to go right past me. My finger curled around the .44 in my holster.

“Can I help you?”

The girl sounded irritated. My jaw clenched.

“I need to see Nick Valentine,” I said. Her face was round, with a light complexion and kind eyes and rosy cheeks. Fine lines branched from those eyes, though. Could be stress or overwork or even too much laughter. I couldn’t tell. Never could.

“He’s not available right now. Is this about a case?”

I didn’t move. My hand didn’t tighten on the gun. I remained placid.

“I’m going to hire him. For a case,” I said. My tongue licked the edges of my teeth. Dull. A nerve running from my eye to my neck blazed, a constant pain pressing beneath the surface.

The girl flicked open a folder laying on the desk, lifted a few pages, pretended to read them.

“Mr. Valentine’s schedule is very busy. I’m afraid he isn’t taking any more cases right now.”

No expression. None at all.

“What’s your fee?”

“Mr. Valentine isn’t taking more cases at this time. If you come back in a few days, his schedule might clear up. I’m sorry-”

“Tell me the fee.”

My shoes were too loose. The skin on my feet was stretched and pulled and it was irritating. I shifted, rebalanced myself, to relieve some of the pressure.

“Ma’am, I’m very sorry Mr. Valentine can’t help you, but-”

“I want to talk to him,” I said. My heels ached. They were always aching. Even when I was sitting on my ass, or laying on my back, my heels ached. And if I rested on my soles, they’d ache too. Worse. So I rested on my heels.

She pursed her lips. She was frustrated with me. I was annoying her. Taking time out of her day. I was so unreasonable. Couldn’t I see that she was busy? A stranger, coming in and bothering her and refusing to leave when turned away.

“Mr. Valentine isn’t here right now. If you come back another time, I can set up a meeting and you can discuss your case with him.”

I allowed myself to shake my head.

“No. No I won’t do that.”

“Mr. Valentine isn’t here. Please leave.”

More forceful. Don’t come back another time. _Leave_.

“Where is he?”

“On a case. Out of town,” she said. Her hand drifted under the desk. So stealthily. She didn’t want me to notice.

“Out of town.”

“Yes. He’s on a case.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her arm flexed beneath the desk. Ever so slightly. I didn’t react. Not even so slightly.

“Where is he?”

Her whole body clenched. But not enough. Not enough. I remained still. Not a single twitch.

_Do it. Let me. Let me please._

“You need to leave. Now.”

_Let me do it. Please let me. Try it. Try it so I can._

“I need to speak to Nick Valentine.”

“I’m warning you. Leave now.”

Footsteps upstairs. The girl released a long breath. I permitted a small smirk. The footsteps were loud and heavy, the pace even.

“What is going on here?”

“Mr. Valentine,” the girl said. Valentine’s yellow eyes bounced between me, the girl, and her hand beneath the desk, and to his credit, my hand resting limply on my pistol.

“Can I help you?” He asked me. It was a tone meant to be placating, but with a threatening edge. He turned his body to face me directly, to appear larger and more intimidating. A primal instinct from the metal man.

“I need to hire you. But I hear you’re out of town and won’t be back for some time. Can I leave a message?”

His face, worn fibrous plastic grafted onto a wire frame, was as still as mine. But his fingers twitched. His eyes narrowed their focus.

The girl’s hand remained under the desk, but she was watching Nick Valentine. Waiting for his signal. Waiting for him waiting for me waiting for them. She was sweating. Those rosy cheeks were fuller than ever, flushed and dark.

“After the tone. What do you want?”

“I need someone found,” I said.

“Who?”

“A woman. A woman and her… disciples.”

“Her disciples. She run some cult you got kicked out of?”

“Sure. Sounds fine to me.”

“I’ll need more than that to go off,” he said. The girl’s look turned questioning. Could he really be considering it? He couldn’t be. It was impossible. I was clearly crazy, clearly some kind of deranged lunatic from too close to the Glowing Sea.

Maybe I was.

“What do you need?”

“A name will help. A description. A last known location. Friends, aliases, identifying characteristics. Et cetera.”

“Her name is Nisha.”

Her blood flashed in my vision.

“She’s dark skinned, a little under six foot tall.”

Her skull shattered. Blood everywhere.

“She doesn’t have any friends. But she surrounds herself with sycophants.”

All of them going to die. I would break them into pieces.

“They call themselves the Disciples. They’re a gang.”

Not anymore. They were nothing now. Nothing but rats trying desperately to hide from the exterminator.

“Violent. Sadistic. The whole bundle.”

But not compared to me. She thought she was something, she thought she was the biggest bad that ever walked the fucking earth. _She’ll learn_.

“They were sighted around Goodneighbor. The old State House.”

“That’s it? It’ll be enough. The Disciples… I’ve never heard of them,” he said. “I assume they’re a raider gang.”

“Assume whatever you want,” I said.

“And your relation with this Nisha character? She kill your family, burn your homestead to the ground?”

“Something like that.”

Nick Valentine emulated a sigh, and rubbed his jaw. It was an exquisite fake. A perfect simulacrum of a human being. Better than me.

“I’ll look into it as soon as possible. In the meantime, we’ll have to discuss a fee,” he said.

“A thousand caps.”

“A thousand caps? I’m not running a charity here. Standard going rate for missing persons is a thousand five.”

“A thousand five, then.”

“But this isn’t a standard missing persons. This is more like mercenary work. Five thousand caps.”

“A thousand five.”

“Come on. Don’t be ridiculous. Three thousand, and no less. This is dangerous work, you know.”

The nerve behind my eye was humming. Sending pulse after pulse of pain towards neck. Not pain. Pressure. Little pockets of pressure racing from my eye to my spine, again and again and again. Throbbing.

“A thousand five now. Two thousand after.”

“Two thousand now-”

“No, Mr. Valentine. You’ll take what I’ve offered. Now.”

I wanted to smoke. I wanted to smoke a cigarette and empty a bottle of whiskey and hit something until my knuckles broke.

The tip of my index finger stroked my pistol’s textured grip. So lightly. It sent electric filaments up my arm. I wanted to break the metal man and kill his pretty assistant and kill anyone that got in my way until there wasn’t anyone left in the whole fucking city.

“I can’t do it. Not for less than-”

“Mr. Valentine, I am not negotiating with you. I have given you my case, I have given you my payment. Take it.”

His eyes swiveled towards the girl. It was quick, so quick it barely registered. But she saw it. And I saw it.

Her arm flexed again. Hard.

I pulled my pistol and shot her twice in the chest. Blood splattered on the wall behind her, and she collapsed, clutching at her breast. With a pistol in her hand.

The detective reached for his gun, a cheap looking revolver, and I put three shots in him. One passed right through him, but the other two lodged in his metal frame. They didn’t hit anything major, but they knocked him on his back and kept him there.

I opened the cylinder, emptied the shells into my hand, and reloaded. I took a second and fired another shot towards the detective’s head. I missed but it wasn’t worth another bullet.

Commotion outside. Just outside. In the alley. Two, three, five. Five men. No, six. Two go around, block the other side. Eight in alley. Six and two.

I waited.

Two go ahead, carefully. Six in alley, four and two.

Two in entryway. One forward.

I could see his foot, the barrel of his rifle. Just inside the door.

I swung around, grabbed his gun and pushed it aside with one hand and fired two shots point blank into his gut with the other. I kicked him back into the other, and emptied the chamber into the both of them. Neither got up.

Six in alley, four and two. Shouting. Get back. Stay back. Further away, taking cover at either end.

How many? I listened. Blood seeped from the two dead, pooling and draining into the alley.

Four in alley, two and two. Two behind cover, left side. Six total.

I emptied the cylinder and reloaded. Crouching low, I hefted one of the dead men over my left side, belly out. He was light, but he wore padded armor.

I stepped into the alley.

Two on right. Two shots towards first, both hit. Three towards second, one hit. Both went down. Empty.

Bullets pelted my human shield. I dropped my .44 and grabbed his submachine gun. I put it over his shoulder, and fired off a few rounds.

I starting moving in that direction. The dead man was bleeding from the waist, and within moments I was covered in blood. The ground itself, narrow wooden boards that passed for a street, was slick with it.

The shots kept coming. My shoulder screamed for relief, but I ignored it.

Two in alley.

I threw the dead man into the first and held the trigger on the second until the wall behind him was painted red.

I dove behind the first, who struggled to shove off the dead man. He was kicking, and I avoided a few aimed at my face. I aimed the submachine gun at his crotch and emptied it. He screamed, and shuddered into unconsciousness.

I grabbed his gun, and checked the magazine. I discarded the gun I had and kept his.

Two at end. Behind cover. More beyond. I didn’t know how many.

The firing had stopped. I was low enough behind the two stacked bodies they couldn’t hit me. I rolled onto my back. No one coming behind me. I listened.

Screaming and shouting. Too far away, not pertinent. Two at end not talking. Waiting; I would have to get up eventually. No. Waiting for reinforcements. I couldn’t hold both ends of the alley. They must have had the numbers to flush me out.

I checked the magazine again.

“I surrender! I surrender!”

I tossed the submachine gun away from me.

“I surrender. Don’t shoot!”

“Stand up. Slowly!”

I did. Two at end. I didn’t see any others. No. One behind a counter, in center. Two behind counter.

The two at the end came into the alley. They approached me, together. Fucking idiots.

“Alright. Don’t move, bitch,” the first said.

“We should just shoot her,” the second said.

“The mayor wouldn’t like that,” the first responded.

“Fucking…. Look at Dan. Fuck…”

I held my hands above my head. The first approached me, one hand holding his gun leveled at my chest. The other hand reached for mine.

I threw myself into him. The gun fell out of his hand, and he hit the ground on his back. The other raised his gun. I slapped it aside. I stomped on the first one’s ankle, and grabbed the other one’s face. I slammed his head into the wall, cracking his skull and smearing brain matter on the wood.

I dropped to my knees and straddled the first. He was grasping for his fallen gun, but it was out of his reach. I put my hands around his throat, and pressed my thumbs into his neck. He immediately abandoned the gun, and tried to pull my hands away. His nails cut into the skin on my wrists; his left hand slipped and tore a large strip of skin from my forearm. I grimaced, and his windpipe buckled. Leaning into it for good measure, I only let up when he started gurgling on his own blood.

My forearm injury was bleeding, but it was shallow. The air bit at the exposed nerves.

I picked up both of their guns, and pushed myself flush against the alley wall. Catching up, someone fired a few volleys into the alley.

Two, at least, behind counter.

I checked over the dead. None of them had any grenades or anything heavier than shitty pipe submachine guns. Not that I could see from there.

I slid over to the corner, holding myself as flat against the wall as I could. Quickly, I leaned out and fired towards the counter.

I caught one with his head poking out. The small submachine gun bullets shredded his face.

One less behind counter. I fired another volley in that direction.

I had to get to the exit. No cover between where I was to there. They’d have snipers in the upper bleachers. Nothing I could do about that. Nothing except run fast.

I slid out of cover and dashed towards the counter. I was halfway there. A sharp crack, and my left bicep had a hole in it.

I kept going. I hit the counter and tumbled over, landing on my back on the other side.

One behind counter.

I pulled the trigger in his direction, and he went down. I struggled to my feet, and took his gun. I checked the magazine, checked mine, and dropped his.

There was a clinic in the marketplace. I ducked in, and rummaged around. I found two stimpacks, and injected both. Nothing else worth taking.

Outside, it was silent. Everyone was either inside or waiting for me.

I rounded the corner out of the marketplace. The sniper hit me in the left shoulder; I saw the muzzle flash. Holding the submachine gun in my right hand, I fired. I couldn’t see him, but I saw his rifle drop and fall down the bleachers.

I went for the exit, keeping my left arm pinned to my body.

Just sticking out of cover, I saw the barrel of the rifle before I saw the person. I rounded the corner right on top of him, and kicked him in the face. He fell backwards, and I knocked the gun away. I spared only a few breaths to kick him in the head as hard as I could, and kept going.

I realized too late what was happening. Momentum kept me barreling towards the exit, even as I tried to skid to a halt.

They were waiting for me. I couldn’t count them. Redirecting myself as best as I could, I dove headlong into the group on the right. I took two to the ground.

I tore out one’s throat, and grabbed the other by the hair to slam his head against the ground. By the sound of the crack, he was done.

I staggered up. A jab caught another man in the stomach, and I emptied the last of my gun’s magazine into the fourth.

Someone hit me on the back of the head. I swung around, and caught the next baton swing. I twisted it out of his hand, and threw it in his face. I stumbled, and I kicked him in the shin. He fell to his knees, and I punched him in the throat twice.

I got shot in the stomach. I went down on my knees, and someone kicked me between the shoulder blades. I hit the ground.

They surrounded me, hitting me with batons and baseball bats. I got my hands braced against the ground, and pushed up. My left arm buckled immediately. A baseball bat swing hit my head, and I lost consciousness.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Her eyes strained to see the small scrawl in the center of the paper, hidden by a shadow that split the page in two. The air outside was silent, except for the whooping and shouting of the occasional drunk; nothing else disturbed the cold dark.

Faint stars of white drifted out of the sky, some blown into her office by stray gusts of biting wind. She would have to install windows, or the many records stacked around the office would be ruined by summer’s come. They would be glass windows. She had to see outside, to survey the translation of her scribblings into wood and metal and blood.

Glass had to come from somewhere. Most of the surrounding area had long since been stripped bare of any scraps that might be useful, any material or component – rare or commonplace – that could be found. But there might still be some trinkets hidden away in dead places, dropped and forgotten by people long since passed.

It was an irony. People spent their whole lives rummaging through trash and filth to find the precious junk that people two centuries ago hadn’t bothered to remember existed. The thoughtless, careless decisions of a man two hundred years before – buying an extra bottle of glue because he couldn’t remember if he had enough in his garage – could change the life of a man in the present, save it or destroy it. Drops of glue that hold together a gun when it fires. Or don’t. Decided by the forgetfulness of a weekend tinkerer.

She enjoyed imagining the scenarios that led to her world. The stories behind the placement of every object, behind the arrangement of every piece of furniture, behind the number of bullets loaded in a revolver beneath a pillow. They all had stories. People put them there, made those choices. They had reasons, emotions, passions. Passions that led to a bottle of pills inside the tank of a toilet, or a typewriter sitting lonely under a lamp in a dusty attic.

If only more people had had a passion for living, maybe she wouldn’t be freezing in a wooden office, thinking about how to scrounge enough glass to shield herself from the snow.

* * *

 

Even with bodies huddled tightly, so tightly, against him, the cold made his bones ache. His eyes stung behind their lids as the freezing wind licked at them, his toes felt elongated and pressed. His harem was not made of nubile, fleshy maidens, but worn, haggard crones – their youthful beauty a conceit hiding their long limbs and gnarled joints – that offered little protection from the winter’s bite. In the morning, one or two of them would be on death’s door, brains addled by frost and hearts barely beating.

Around his heap of bodies, the Pack spread out around him. It was not the Pack he had once led, but a mongrel horde of three breeds, come together under his command for her purposes. In the beginning, they had segregated themselves, the three breeds, held apart by lingering suspicion and disdain. But they were at war, and war brought men together in a way peace only longed to. Now they lay together, held each other against the ice and the snow, reveled together in the flesh and the blood. More than that, they learned from each other. That was his secret pride. That a Pack reaver counted caps shrewdly, an Operator swore obedience and meant it, and a Bossman stripped naked to charge into battle howling. Little by little, piece by piece, three breeds became one. One breed. His breed. That was what brought him the true pleasure, as women wrapped their hands and mouths and more around him in mindless craving of his body’s warmth, as the cold wind beat them closer and tighter.

But even as he lay there among his Pack, his eyes closed but mocking sleep, he was not there. He was nowhere near there. His mind’s eye raced across the map, dancing between outposts and settlements and cities, tracing supply lines and trade routes, drawing borders around the territories that were theirs and the territories that would soon be theirs. More than the sinewy women that clung to him in the night, it was that map that made his blood run hot. He was no longer a king, or a man, or even an Alpha at the head of his Pack. She had made him more than that. She had made him a conqueror.

And for that, he loved her. 

* * *

 

He had grown used to the constant noise and flashing lights of the arcade; he’d learned to sleep blanketed in their chaos. It had become a comfort, almost. So long as the machines rumbled and the neon lights blinked, things were alive. He was alive.

But the Kiddie Kingdom was quiet by comparison. Its garish attractions had been stripped and broken down to fuel their expansion into the Commonwealth. All of Nuka-World bore evidence of the slow, steady rape of its unnatural resources. It had become a skeleton of a skeleton, a shadow of its former shadowy self. The boisterous robots no longer roamed the Gulch, and their dispassionate cousins no longer patrolled the Galactic Zone. The Angry Anaconda had been cannibalized for its precious steel frame. The machines deep beneath it worked day and night churning out meat to feed the horde; the exotic beasts it once propagated had been extinguished forever. Slaves labored at the same pace in the Bottling Plant, assembling guns and bullets and tools.

In all, Nuka-World was a much more solemn place that it had once been. He had made it that way. Laying in his castle, surrounded by four walls with a heavy roof above his head, he wondered if he should be remorseful. It had once been a place of wonder, a place of joy and magic. Now it was a war-camp, the engine that drove the Overboss’s conquest, the beating heart of her fledging nation. The cold calculus of survival said it was a worthy trade. But he had seen women wail over the death of ravenous children, seen men weep while spending hours digging their small graves. He had seen those children, yet full of life, cry over useless toys that broke in the playing. He knew what he had done was wrong. What he was going to do. But as his mind clouded and he drifted into quiet dreams, he couldn’t seem to make himself care.

* * *

 

“Mason will be joining us over the radio. I’ve had a receiver installed in here, so we can communicate privately,” Mags said. She pulled the cart carrying the terminal over to her, and tapped impatiently at its keys until the receiver blared static.

Jerry, sitting in front of her desk with his legs crossed at the knee, read silently from a report. He had to pull his head back and hold the page slightly away from himself, and he squinted. They had glasses available for requisition, but they’d been having trouble matching the lens to the person; there was an active thousand cap bounty for pre-War texts on optometry.

The receiver fell silent, then a tinny voice squeaked into the room, “Can you hear us?”

“We can hear you,” she responded. She keyed a few more commands into the terminal, and when the voice spoke again, it was several octaves lower.

“This is Mason. Go.”

Jerry placed the report on her desk, and folded his hands. Mags cleared her throat.

“We have a report from Diamond City. One of our contacts there is claiming the Overboss has been captured by Diamond City Security and is being held pending a review by the mayor,” she said.

No one said anything for a while.

“The report doesn’t say who the contact is,” Jerry said quietly. “Are we certain he’s reliable?”

“No,” Mags answered. She heard Mason grunt over the radio. “Nelson was a friend of mine a long time ago. He keeps me updated on things in the city, but he isn’t reliable.”

“What about our other contacts? Is anyone else reporting this?” Jerry asked.

“No. But there are rumors, stories are being passed down the vine about a… disturbance in the city. They line up with what we’ve been told about the Overboss,” she responded.

“How does he know it’s the Overboss?” Mason asked from the receiver. His voice has risen a bit, and faint static distorted his words. Mags looked at the terminal, and decided not to try fixing it.

“He doesn’t. But we know she was going to Diamond City. We know she was going to see Nick Valentine. And we know she’s capable of single-handedly murdering over a dozen of Diamond City’s finest.”

“If it wasn’t her, it should have been,” Mason responded with a wry grin they could hear over the radio.

“If she’s being held in Diamond City, we need to get her out,” Jerry said. “I’d call it a rescue, but it’s more like early release for good behavior.”

Mason barked a laugh, and Mags saw a twinkle in Jerry’s normally dull eyes.

“I’ve already given orders to start putting together resources for the operation. Jerry, your man Jordan is my point on this,” Mags said. Jerry nodded.

“What about Riley?”

“She’s too important here at the Terminal, Mason. And she’s been withdrawn lately; I question her leadership abilities,” Mags responded.

“She’s a good fighter. One of the best I have. But you’re probably right,” Mason said. It was concession, but Mags could hear resentment over the radio.

Mags opened her desk and rifled through the papers. She pulled one out and handed it across the desk to Jerry.

While he read it, she said, “Mason, I’ve handed Jerry a rough draft for logistics on a possible rescue operation. I think it’s a good idea to keep it small, keep it contained. A small group can infiltrate Diamond City, spring the ’Boss, and smuggle her out of the city without raising alarm. And whatever supplies they need, they can carry with them. I didn’t think you could afford to divert a supply train to sustain a larger force.”

“We took a big farm last week, and we’re preparing to attack a truck stop a bit further north in a few days. I could redirect those efforts towards Diamond City, if need be,” Mason said. “The route from Sunshine Tidings is secure.”

“Still, we need to keep the momentum going on your front. And I don’t want to make a production out of this. It could be bad for morale. Follow?”

“I follow,” Mason growled. “It’s a sign of weakness.”

Jerry nearly snorted. “If killing a dozen Diamond City security guards and living is considered weakness, we’re all infant babes.”

“Be that as it may, I think it’s in our interests to keep this small. Within our inner circles.”

“I agree,” Mason buzzed from the receiver. Jerry put the draft report on the desk, and steepled his fingers in his lap.

“Mason, how many people know we exist?” He asked.

“What?”

“What’s our reputation in the Commonwealth? Are we widely known? Are we thought of as just another raider gang, or as a legitimate faction?”

“Our reports from downtown indicate that we’re seen as something akin to the Institute. A boogeyman still far enough away to be safely ignored,” Mags interjected.

“We met a group of traders that travel the Commonwealth a few weeks ago,” Mason said. “They knew who we were, knew that we meant business. But they weren’t afraid of us.”

Jerry looked contemplative, but said nothing. Mags followed his line, weighing the conclusion against her own. It had its merits. They could pull off a major operation against Diamond City, without doubt. They could storm it and take the whole damn thing by force, if they were willing to expend the resources. But it would put them on the map in a way they simply weren’t prepared for. They could take Diamond City, but Diamond City allied with Goodneighbor and Bunker Hill and the Minutemen at Sanctuary, all working in tandem to destroy them? That wasn’t so certain.

As if reading her mind, Jerry said, “We don’t want to take it. But Diamond City is a symbol, and if we cast it down, the settlements we _do_ want will fall in line behind us.”

“Destroy Diamond City?”

“No. Threaten to destroy it.”

“Cough up the Overboss, or we burn the city to the ground,” Mason said. He sounded like he liked the idea.

“It would have to be a credible threat. Are we capable of razing a city?” Mags asked. She didn’t like it.

Jerry smiled.  

* * *

 

He lit a cigarette, the end casting a faint light that bounced off the glittering snow. The smoke warmed him, calmed his shivering muscles and shivering nerves. All around him, people worked, hauling crates and boxes and pallets from one spot to another. The supplies were unloaded from one train and moved to another, to be sent back in the same direction. But more than supplies were redirected. The Alpha’s host was shifting gears, away from their tireless push north towards the Minutemen Sanctuary, and back southeast towards the great green jewel. Raiders – soldiers – packed what few possessions they had and, quarter-empty sacks slung over skinny shoulders, began the long march.

“It’s moving quickly,” Ward said, licking his teeth. “I have to give it to you, William. Most of the time, you’re pretty pathetic. But you can organize people almost as good as your sister.”

William didn’t respond.

“Too bad you aren’t as pretty, or maybe Mason’d like you more.”

His cigarette flared, but he said nothing. Ward watched him greedily for every twitch of response, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in a sadistic parody of mirth.

Not disappointed, Ward turned back to watching the mobilization, tongue wiping back and forth across his teeth. He shook his head. “Almost as good.”

William turned away, and without a word paced off towards the big farmhouse. The other man’s quiet giggle followed him.

Inside the farmhouse, things were quieter. It was largely empty, with all the bedrolls that had filled its narrow halls cleared out and either on a wagon or on a back. A few men still toiled about, collecting this and that, triple-checking the house’s nooks and crannies for anything not already looted. The former owners were upstairs, and he could hear a woman weeping. Whether for the fate of their beloved home, or the weeks of brutality her family had endured, he could not know. Probably both.

He found Mason in the farmhouse’s central room, the room most insulated from the bitter outdoor air. The radio box hummed with static, broken by an occasional murmured comment, as Mason poured over maps and charts and logs, scribbling in an unlearned hand on a pre-War notepad. The Alpha did not look up as William entered.

“Everything is proceeding on time. The main force is already on its way,” he said. Mason did look up then, his expression annoyed.

“What was that, Mason?”

“Your brother.”

“Why isn’t he overseeing the deployment?”

Mason arched an eyebrow.

“The deployment is running smoothly. Perishable supplies are already a day out, with the main force not far behind. The holding force staying behind has erected –”

“We have decided you should command the holding force,” someone said over the radio. It was undoubtedly Jerry, although William could not recognize him by voice. “You will not be joining Mason in Diamond City.”

William held back a stammer as he said, “Ward is more than capable of leading the group staying here.”

Mason grunted.

“Ward is skilled at many things. Maintaining a holding garrison is not one of them. We need the Abernathy family working their farm, not being raped to death,” Jerry hissed over the radio.

Images of Ward laying at his feet, huddled fetal against a wall as blood poured from his mouth and his breathing grew more and more labored, flashed in William’s mind. Of a woman, her face bashed to a bloody pulp, unrecognizable, worming in agony as Ward forced himself on her.

“This is an important responsibility. Don’t disdain it,” Mags’ voice came from the radio box. Her voice was heavy, he could tell even through the static and distortion the extra meaning. But he looked at Mason. And he was not his sister.

“I am not going to spend my days filling out paperwork while we take Diamond City.”

“You will,” Mason growled, laying his lead nub down for the first time and pressing his palms flat against the table. William met his gaze, tried to project defiance. But the Alpha did not back down, did not relent even slightly in any facet of his posture, and William withered.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Caught between anger and fear, he turned around and left that shrinking room without responding. Mason’s eyes were on his back all the way out.

Ward was still outside, where he had left him, sucking his teeth. He looked at William approaching with a wicked grin.

“You look like you walked in on someone fucking your sister. Or… I take it back. You don’t look jealous enough for that,” the Bossman said.

William, hands shaking, lit another cigarette, and watched the Overboss’s army march away to war.

* * *

 

A stack of papers almost a foot tall slammed onto his desk. He eyed it hatefully for a moment, then turned back to the half a foot stack he was currently parsing through.

“It’s not like we’re planning to level fucking Diamond City with fucking 10mm pistols,” he said angrily, as he affixed his stamp to another requisition form.

Riley said nothing, sitting against the wall, picking under her fingernails with a combat knife, her legs crossed in a distinctly feminine fashion. Probably because she wasn’t wearing much in the way of pants, and didn’t want him looking at her cunt.

Fucking bitch.

“What are we planning to do, then,” she asked nonchalantly. He glared at her.

“Do you think I fucking know? Mags doesn’t tell me shit, Jerry doesn’t tell me shit, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in the same room as Mason,” he responded. “Calvin would tell me, but apparently Jerry is being tight-lipped with him too.”

“Are they fucking yet?”

“Cal said Jerry hasn’t made any moves yet. I told the dumb fucker to just walk in and pull his cock out, but he doesn’t listen.”

Riley barked a laugh at that, pulling the knife away from her fingers simultaneously. Good reflex to have.

“Mason’s not going to be happy about that,” she said. Jordan shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

He pressed his stamp against another form, and pulled the next one off the top of the smaller stack.

“Oh, look,” he said, holding the form up for her to look at. “Another 10mm requisition.”

“Why do you even read those things? Just put your stamp on it, and move on,” she said.

“Have you ever met Mags? Bitch would take my fucking head off if she caught me doing that,” he said, stamping another form. “Worst part is, she’d be right. We need this shit. There are too many fucking people and not enough stuff. We’d run out of everything within a week if we didn’t manage it.”

Shaking her head, Riley said, “Still, seems like a lot of fucking time to spend on a bunch of worthless junk.”

He was about to agree with her, when the next requisition form he pulled off the stack made him nearly fall out of his chair. Riley’s attention snapped to him, combat knife twirling in her hands instinctively into a reverse grip. Also a good reflex to have.

“Holy fucking shit.”

“What?”

“This… this has to be a joke.”

“ _What?_ ”

He held the requisition out to her, then spun around in his chair. He opened a cabinet behind him, and rifled through the folders inside until he found the one he wanted. He pulled it, and opened it with a nervous gentleness.

“This is a fucking joke, Jordan.”

He flipped a few pages, past the j’s and the k’s and the l’s, and found the page he needed. He put his finger at the top line, and scanned it all the way down the page. It was on line 8.

“Jordan?”

“I… I don’t think it’s a joke.”

There was a pause.

“Fuck off it isn’t,” she responded. He handed her the page he was looking at.

“Line 8.”

She counted the lines with her knife, and visibly recoiled when she got to the eighth. She looked up at him, and met his wide-eyed gaze.

“Those motherfuckers are insane.”

“Yeah.”

She handed him back the requisition and the supply log. He replaced the log in the cabinet, and, with a long breath that rapidly transformed into a giddy grin, he affixed his stamp to Mags’ requisition.

* * *

 

Jerry sat on a doorstep, and placed his pail beside him. He flipped the lid, and pulled out a Nuka-Cola. The cap went into his pocket, and he sipped conservatively at the dark liquid.

There were light clouds drifting overhead, but the sun shone brilliantly in the sky, reflecting off the shallow covering of snow in blinding fashion. It was cold, cold enough that he hadn’t bothered to pack his pail with ice. He took another sip of the naturally chilled cola.

He could hear rumblings a few blocks over, as the last of the area’s Super Mutants were cleared out. The sound stirred his subconscious to wipe the thick black blood dripping off his sleeve on the ground, leaving a dark smear. He savored the feeling of his next drink coursing down his throat, the cool sting.

A breeze picked up, cutting through his jacket and whistling between the tall buildings. It was steady. Unrelenting. But it was light enough that he could largely ignore it, except for the occasional shiver.

The crunch of footsteps in snow announced his approach, long before Calvin came around a corner and nodded to him. Jerry took a very long drink.

“They’re in position. The Alpha said to go ahead as soon as you’re ready,” Calvin said, speaking low tones. Only appropriate, for the occasion.

“And Mags?”

“The area is secure. Nobody is getting out without going through us.”

Jerry pursed his lips, and nodded slowly. He looked up at Calvin, standing over him. He offered the other man a drink of his cola with a gesture. Calvin took the bottle, and cautiously took a swig before handing it back.

“It’s just Nuka-Cola,” he said, as if he expected something different. Jerry finished the bottle with a long draw.

“Yeah.”

Jerry discarded the bottle, and stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets for warmth. He turned down the lane, and started walking. Calvin followed right behind him. The road was empty, and so quiet he could be forgiven for thinking they were all alone in the ruins. They took a left turn, then a right.

The smoking, smoldering husks of destroyed turrets littered the road, puddles of melted snow surrounding them. Halfway down the road, there was a corpse. He must have been keeping watch from a high window, because the impact of his fall had cast blood for almost two meters around him. He had fallen on his stomach, and his ribs protruded out his back, twisted and broken and mangling his bloody flesh. His head had a large chunk missing, and his brain spilled steaming into the snow.

They stopped before making the last left turn. Jerry turned to Calvin, who looked much calmer than he rightfully should have.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Jerry leaned over and kissed the other man on the lips. When he pulled away, Calvin looked bewildered and took a wary step back.

“For luck,” Jerry said. Then he walked out and left.

The gates of Diamond City reared high, and there was a welcoming committee to greet him. He did a headcount, and there were eleven Diamond City Security men, three men that looked like mercenaries, a woman in a long red overcoat, and a man he knew by his haggard suit to be the mayor.

Flanked by his security force, the mayor stepped forward and stared defiantly at the lone leader of the Nuka-World Bossmen. Jerry smiled, and extended a hand to the mayor. He took it, and they shook.

“Mr. Mayor. I represent the Nuka-World organization; my name is Jerry.”

The mayor nodded. “Mayor McDonough. Although I agreed to this meeting, the people of Diamond City are not prepared to negotiate with raiders. Understand that right away.”

Jerry’s smile widened.

“Of course, Mr. Mayor. But before you take too hard a stance on negotiation, there’s something _you_ need to understand.”

The mayor sneered. “And what’s that, exactly?”

“We have twenty-seven men on the rooftops surrounding Diamond City, aiming down with a combined arsenal of one hundred and sixty-six mini-nukes. Release the woman you have taken prisoner to us, or we will destroy you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. And probably will be a while longer before the next chapter. We'll see. For the handful of people out there that really like this little fic of mine, you can thank aeiparthenos for reminding me I should probably get back to it.


	16. Chapter 16

I opened my eyes. It was easier than it should have been.

I was in a cell. It had three sides of iron bars, floor to ceiling, and one side of solid concrete. There was a door, a gate, that didn’t look very solid. Some lights on the ceiling, pointing down, but they were weak. I could stare right at them and not blink.

Someone was looking at me. I raised my head, blinked the fog from my eyes, and saw a Diamond City guard leaning against a wall, straight across from me, watching me. He didn’t have a gun.

Someone else was there. Someone was opening the gate, coming into my cell. My arms were bound against my sides, not tight enough, and my legs were tied at the ankles. But someone was coming in.

I flexed against the ropes holding me to the chair, and they were thick. Too thick to break. Loose, but not loose enough to slip out of. I flexed harder.

“No use, you know. You’re tougher than you look, but you’re not going to snap those ropes with your bare hands.”

A fat man in a worn suit. Mustache that he spent too much time grooming. An ill-fitting hat that had seen better days. I’d never met the mayor, but I recognized him.

He had his hands in his pockets. He slouched backwards a little bit, walked on his heels. Thought it made him look confident. He had a slightly concerned, pathetically paternal look on his face. Poor bastard thought he could fool me. I could see his pulse, the veins throbbing in his neck. I could see the beads of sweat forming on his hairline. I could see the hesitation in his steps, his casual stroll to stand in front of me.

To stand between me and the guard.

“There are a lot of people that want you dead right now, miss. Lot of people demanding that you be killed,” he said. _No shit_. “They think you’re just some two-bit raider - hopped up on so many chems you could arm-wrestle a super-mutant - that went on a berserker killing spree. And maybe they’re right.”

He shrugged.

“But I don’t think so. You came here for Nick Valentine. To hire him for a job. To find somebody?”

He was fat. Slow. I could go for the eyes. He wouldn’t be able to stop me.

Thinking about ripping his eyes from their fleshy sockets, I remembered that there had been a large hole in my arm. One of them. Couldn’t remember which. I flexed both against the ropes; the miracle of Stimpaks meant no hole. Not only did the dumb fuckers leave me alive, they healed me.

The mayor was still talking. Not sure what he said. I didn’t listen to him. He had an annoying voice, and I was going to tear his throat out, probably, so there was no point.

But I was listening. I heard footsteps. Rustling. I heard the sounds of at least three people just out of my sightlines, armed people. A metallic click – armed with guns. That made four, not counting the mayor. Not sure why anybody would count him.

I pulled against the ropes again. They were strong, thick ropes.

The mayor got around to saying something interesting. “We’re going to move you to a more secure location. Somewhere you won’t be able to get out, and nobody will be able to get in. There will be no jailbreaks from my…”

He kept going, kept rambling. I was amazed his jowls were as heavy as they were, with all the exercise his jaw got. Eventually, the three lurkers came into the light. They entered the cell, surrounded me. With guns. More of those fucking pipe guns.

Three around me. One outside, no gun. No gun, and separated from me by the mayor.

The mayor, astoundingly, finished talking, and apparently excused himself, because he left my little cell. Without so much as a tip of his hat. When he was safely out of range, the guards started towards me.

I flexed against the ropes. They were strong, too strong to break. But the chair was flimsy aluminum, and it snapped easily as I leaped to my feet and dived towards the nearest guard. I took him to the ground, bullets bouncing off the seat of the chair that still clung to me at the ankles.

My hands, no longer held at my sides, were still bound at the wrists. So I bashed the guard’s face in with my two hands, instead of one.

I grabbed his gun, holding it awkwardly, and fired four shots through the bars into the guard scrambling to open the gate and get inside. He collapsed, clutching at his face where two of the bullets had landed.

I rolled onto my side, best I could with the chair dragging by my feet, and emptied the gun’s magazine into the next guard. His gun fell from his hand, and luckily for me slid across the concrete floor close enough for me to grab and unload into the final two guards.

I stood up.

My hands were bloody, a lot of it mine. His skull had fractured and cut into my hands. The blood made my skin slick enough to slide the ropes off my wrists, and I bent down to untie the ropes at my ankles.

Footsteps coming this way. A lot of them, but running single file. The passageways running beneath Diamond City were narrow, barely wide enough for two abreast if you squeezed.

One of the guards I’d shot was still alive and awake, groaning and trying to pull his body towards his fallen gun. I went to him. Leaned down and grabbed the gun just as his fingers touched its barrel.

I rifled through his pockets, looking for a key to the gate. He grasped at me, pathetic little punches that hurt him more than they hurt me. With every weak strike at my arms or my sides, he grunted and gasped, the strikes getting weaker and weaker until his arms wouldn’t rise anymore. He had a helmet on, so I could see his face, but I could hear the gurgle of blood in his throat when he tried to breath, and I could hear the gurgle stop when he died.

I found the key.

By the time I’d collected their guns and ammunition, and the guard outside’s baseball bat, the reinforcements were almost there. I met them, coming at me single file, and shot every bullet I had at them. Killed the first few, and the next came stumbling over their fallen comrades at me, guns and bats and knives brandishing.

I worked my way past them, swinging the bat like a smith swings a hammer, methodical and precise. I got stabbed, more than once, and got shot at least once. Somebody hit me in the knee with their own bat, and I brought mine down on their head. Limping, bleeding, I dropped the bat and grabbed a knife from a guy that didn’t need it anymore.

Bouncing from one guard to the next, knife slashing and stabbing and hacking, I killed at a steady pace down the passageway. I got stabbed again, and shot again, and hit again. But I didn’t think about it.

I kept moving. Pushed the knife under a helmet, up through the throat into the mouth, and pulled it back out, blood splashing after it. Slashed at an exposed belly, not deep enough, but he fell to his knees and I put the pointy end through his eye. Got hit in the knee, again, and I dropped. On my way back up, I stabbed into his groin, and got to my feet, steadying myself on his shoulders as he gazed wide-eyed with pain into nothingness.

I was getting hit too often with the knife, so I dropped it and grabbed a gun. It was a pipe gun, probably loaded with .38, but I cut down the next two or three with it. It clicked empty and I tossed it at the next guy. He stumbled back. I punched him, unsteadied him, and threw his helmeted head against the wall. It bounced off with an amusing ring, and I slapped it against the wall again. Concussed, he dropped to the ground, and I moved past him.

And into an empty room.

I stood there, wavering back and forth, my head dizzied and my vision unfocused. I dropped something I was holding, but I didn’t know what it was.

I looked backwards. It was a pretty long passageway. It would take them a long time to clean it.

I looked forwards. There was another long passageway, this one clean. At least, not full of bodies and painted in blood. It looked really long, though.

I looked down. I was dripping blood, and a small pool had formed at my feet. I couldn’t remember what color my clothes had been before, but they were thoroughly crimson now. I could tell from the agony that was slowly entering my perception that a lot of it was mine.

I looked up. A sign, rusty and faded, pointed a slender arrow to my left. I followed the arrow, and saw some steps that led up to a door. I looked back at the sign. I squinted. It said “exit”. I kept looking at it, trying to figure what it meant, with an occasional curious glance at the door.

_What the hell_ , I thought, and climbed the steps. Or started to, because I slipped on the second step and fell. I think it made me hurt more, but it was hard to tell.

I laid there at the bottom, confused, for what seemed like a long time. Then I stood up, and started to climb the steps again. I made it this time.

One of my knees tried to buckle, but I held onto the door handle, and steadied myself. My entire arm trembling, I pulled open the door.

Cold wind hit me, nearly knocked me off my feet, but I leaned into it and stumbled outside.

Snow crunched beneath my feet, then squelched beneath my feet when the blood soaked into it. I made it several steps, then I fell. The snow was thick, cushioned my fall, and I stayed there. The cold numbed my body, drove away the pain and replaced it with a dull, aching throb. My head cleared, somewhat, and I blinked repeatedly as my vision did the same.

I was in an alley. It was almost noon, by the sun. Even as my mind cleared and my vision sharpened, my ears rang a sharp whistle, constant and deafening. I could feel my knuckles crack as I pressed my fists against the ground and forced myself up, but I couldn’t hear them. When I nearly fell back down, but caught myself against a dumpster, I could feel the impact of my hand against the steel, but I couldn’t hear the thud.

Like a baby taking its first steps, I put my foot out, and let my body fall forwards onto it. Again. And again. And again. Relying on the cold to numb my pain, I put one foot in front of the other until I was out of the alley and headed in a direction I vaguely knew to be away from the city.

A trail of blood followed me, heavy at first, but dwindling away to drops. That was a bad sign. I knew it was a bad sign, even as I mindlessly stumbled onwards, not knowing where I was going or how I was going to get there.

I needed drugs. Badly. One Stimpak wouldn’t be enough, not at this stage. But a few would remove any infections, if the cold didn’t see to that, and fix the damage to the flesh. Not a care.

Getting more blood would be the hard part. Couldn’t just slit somebody’s throat and drink the fucking stuff. And there wasn’t a single fucker in all the world I would trust to perform a transfusion, let alone to be on the other end of the tubes.

I guess I would have to settle for plenty of rest and some hot soup.

I laughed. Giggled really. The pain it brought was a sweet song, a trill that reminded me I wasn’t dead yet. That didn’t make me happy. Didn’t make me sad, either. Didn’t make me feel much beyond disappointment that after everything it’d thrown at me, after every opportunity I had given it, the wasteland hadn’t been able to fuck me like I deserved; I was going to survive.

I laughed harder, and the sound carried far through the bitter air.

* * *

 

I opened my eyes again.

I saw the world through a pinhole, and it was blinding. Slowly, with every deep, wheezing breath I took, the pinhole widened, until I could see shapes in the whiteness.

After shapes came textures, came depth. I was lying on my side, huddled against a wall, halfway buried in snow. I was still in the city by the looks of things, but the buildings were shorter and farther apart, the roads wider and more twisting. The outskirts of the city, then.

I could barely remember how I got there, and I certainly couldn’t remember how far I’d walked. When I tried to force myself up, my body wouldn’t respond. My arms didn’t budge, my legs were still. Even my neck couldn’t conjure the strength to raise its burden.

It was snowing very lightly, but as the time passed and I lay there, it continued to pile on me until I started to wonder if it would cover me up entirely.

My eyelids grew heavy after a while, and I drifted to sleep. Before I slipped under, I heard something. It was faint, barely able to pierce the quiet ringing that still deafened me, but it sounded like footsteps and voices.

* * *

 

This time, my hearing returned to me before my sight did. I was on my back, but I was elevated off the ground, and I could feel a fire nearby. I felt the familiar soreness in my arm of Stimpak injection, and again I was saved by people that really should have fucking killed me.

Despite the strength that flowed back into my limbs from the myriad healing chemicals inside a Stimpak, I remained limp and my eyes stayed closed.

Rustling. Shifting. Walking.

“You shouldn’t have wasted our fucking Stimpaks on her.”

“She was going to die.”

“Good. Another cunt bites the dust. What do you want her alive for?”

“I dunno. She’s kind of pretty, isn’t she?”

“Her tits are small. And if you were going to fuck her, you didn’t have to waste our supplies on her.”

“You’d rape a dead woman?”

“Yeah.”

Laughter.

“Sick fucker. I like it when they squirm. Like it better when they scream.”

“Erry’s a screamer. Fuck her.”

“Erry’s cunt is so loose she didn’t realize she’d given birth until the baby said its first word. This one looks nice and tight.”

A pathetically small hand grabbed my crotch, and gave it a feeble squeeze.

“She’s startin’ to warm up, too. Be awake before too long.”

“Are you gonna feed her too?”

“Maybe. She lost a lot of blood. She’s gonna lose some more before I’m done with her. Gotta get some liquid into her.”

“Heh. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

More laughter, in the form of throaty, punctuated grunts.

The small hand kept grasping, absently fondling me. Another hand, larger, grabbed a breast, and roughly stroked and squeezed it.

“Small tits. Don’t know how you get it up for small tits. Like a little boy.”

“Who says I can’t get it up for little boys?”

I don’t know why I let them touch me. I hadn’t been touched that way in a long time.

_Not since him_.

My chest tightened. My throat grew hot, feverishly hot, and my jaw clenched so hard my teeth started to ache. _Not since him_.

“She’s starting to warm up alright. Not much longer, and I’ll start breakin’ in that nice cunt.”

“Why don’t you put it in her right now?”

“Oh fuck off. I told you already. I like it when they’re awake.”

They kept talking, kept rustling, kept groping, and then kept walking. The fire continued to bathe me in its warmth, and the drugs continued to filter energy back into my bones. With all the blood I’d lost, I should have been comatose, at least. But Stimpaks were funny things, that played funny tricks on the body.

My heart rate dipped back down. My throat cooled, my jaw relaxed. The sensations of their molestation faded, leaving nothing but the steady creep of rejuvenation filling my limbs.

And I realized I wanted their touches.

_Not since him_.

I wanted them to fuck me, to use me.

_Not since him_.

To hurt me in a way nothing else could.

_Not since him_.

My mind lingered on images and flashes of the two men, the small one and the large one, taking turns raping me. Beating me. Bashing my skull against the cold ground. Pulling up their trousers and leaving me, broken and leaking, to rot come summer in some ditch.

But then I saw myself. Looking back on a long, narrow hallway full of dead men, drenched in their blood and mine, still standing as my life drained out of me. They were all dead or dying, and I was still standing.

If that didn’t do it, these stupid fuckers wouldn’t.

I got tired of sitting there after an hour or two. I opened my eyes and sat up. It was dark, but I could tell I was still on the outskirts of Boston proper. A little ways northeast, it looked.

I was on a cot, a poorly built contraption of sticks and cloth that was stretched too tight, and there was a fire nearby. And a few more cots, looking little sturdier than mine.

There were also people. Five of them. Three in their cots, appearing to be asleep, and two men sitting by the fire. My two men, presumably. One of them, the one with the small hands, was jerking his cock towards the fire, and the other was watching with a stupid grin on his face.

I pulled my feet around and stood up. The redistribution of blood dizzied me, and I wavered precariously until my head settled and the world fell back into place. I stepped forward, cautiously, and found my legs worked fine and my balance was steady.

I got closer to the two by the fire, and I could hear them. The masturbating one was panting softly, and the watcher was egging him on, giggling.

With a sharp intake of breath and a moaning exhale, the small one ejaculated, bursts of semen spraying onto the fire. When the fluid landed on burning logs, it sizzled and hissed and the watching man laughed until he was breathless.

“You can smell it! You can smell it!”

The smaller man leaned back, his cock falling from his hand, glistening with cum that reflected the fire’s light in dancing patterns. He wiped his soiled hand on his pants, and laughed alongside his companion as the last of his semen burned in the flames.

“Hate to waste it,” he said.

“For an impotent little fucker like you, you should. Won’t be able to get it up for your little girl now.”

“Ah, fuck off,” the small one responded, shoving his penis back into his pants and clambering to his feet.

He turned around and saw me standing there. He paused to gape, and I decked him. While he fell to the ground, his companion leapt up and started at me. I closed the distance, and grabbed him by the throat. He clutched at my wrists, his eyes bulging and his lips parting in a desperate effort to breath, and I crushed his windpipe. I held him up, squeezing tighter and tighter while frothy blood spilled out of breaks in his skin and coated my hand. When he finally went limp, I dropped him.

The small man was still on the ground. I knelt down beside him, and he stared up at me. I could see horror in his eyes. That forced a grin on my face. He pissed himself.

I grabbed him by the shoulders, and without any meaningful resistance, pulled him closer to the fire. He practically let me shove his face into the smoldering coals, but when they made contact and the flesh seared, he screamed and flailed and pissed himself more. I held him to the coals, their heat making my arms burn, but I held him longer. My hands would blister; he stopped screaming. I didn’t pull his head out of the fire, but fell back on my heels and watched it burn.

By the time the skin had blackened and peeled away to reveal the red-white beneath, the other three had roused from their slumber and were panicking. They didn’t see me, not for a while. They armed themselves, shouting and brandishing their guns into the night. Someone fired off a few rounds to scare away the vicious wasteland predator that had come and gone. And I watched red-white burn to black, watched the flames creep so slowly down his neck, hissing and sizzling and struggling to stay alive with all that blood dousing them.

The first person to notice me, to really notice me, didn’t seem to understand. He watched me, blinking rapidly, his mouth hanging slightly open.

I stood up, walked towards him. He raised his gun groggily, pointed in my general direction. He let me get closer, closer, too close. Then he shot me. It went clean through my side, a piss-poor shot at that range.

I kept walking.

He shot me again, this time closer to the center. I stumbled a bit, but kept walking.

He didn’t understand what was happening when I grabbed his gun by the barrel and yanked it out of his hands. I held it by the barrel like a bat and drove it across his chin. Blood and bone and spit flew, and he went down. He probably took a while to die. Might have been morning before the cold got him. Maybe he survived – I didn’t hit him that hard. But I never found out. Never cared to.

I just shot the other two before they had time to react.

They had a lot of drugs. More Stimpaks than I could ever need, and chems galore if I cared to use them. I didn’t. Just shot Stimpak after Stimpak until the holes in my stomach were gone and the pain they caused was a forgotten phantom.

I picked a cot and laid down in it. It was quiet. Insects made their noises all around, but they were faint and distant. The fire crackled low, having long since failed to make headway on the corpse that lay beside it. I listened to these things, the fire and the insects. I listened to them until light came from the west.

It was like the sun, blazing so brilliantly it hurt my eyes behind their lids. It was that way for several seconds, until it faded and was replaced by a darkness blacker than any night. I sat up, blinking away the afterimage, and watched as smoke clouds in the distance billowed into that all-too-familiar shape.

I gauged the distance and the direction. I gauged it again.

Fire died, insects chirped, and I watched as a mushroom cloud rose above the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again. I'm somewhat pleased with this chapter. Not sure why. Probably means it's shit, but hey, I just work here. Thanks again to the folks that left comments and whatnot since the last time. Always nice to see evidence that people actually read this. Beyond the hits ticker, of course.


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